Flesh and Blood
by SUPRNTRAL LVR
Summary: AU to the explosion when Watson is wounded... only things go from bad to worse, and soon Holmes is fighting to keep his friend alive. Because unless Holmes solves this case, Watson will breathe his last breath...
1. Explosion

**Hello! Happy New Year, fanfictioners!!!**

**So, 2010 is finally here and to celebrate it I... went to see Sherlock Holmes with my Swedish friend. :) Loved the film, but felt that the explosion scene was a bit of a let down - Watson would have been WAY more cut up than just that stuff on his neck! Well, anyway, I would have preferred him to be. And plus, I couldn't stand Mary! Why would Watson marry someone who just sits back and watches whilst he saves the day with Holmes? No, I would have liked him to end up with someone much more interesting. Whether that happens in this story or not... well, doubtful. But I can assure you, Mary is out! So, giving Sam, Cas and Dean a rest from my usual limpy, angsty, panicky Supernatural fanfictions, I've decided to do a VERY alternate ending. This probably won't fit in that well in the film, and its probably going to have been done already although I've scanned the ones up to check if anyone's gone the same way, and its just a little bit insane. But aren't we all? ;)**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

**ALSO: the bit which I do which is in the film may not be exact. As much as I would love it, I don't have a perfect memory. :)  
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With the smell of the uncomfortable, slightly itchy glue of his fake beard hanging around him, the hard, plastic-like feel of his hastily dyed hair and the hard, fast thumping of his panicking heart, it was a wonder Holmes had managed to slip inconspicuously into the hospital and past the people within at all. For the first time in his life he felt not the calm, almost relaxing thrill of an easy disguise but a thundering fear, and one which had already drowned out his detective instinct to get as far away as possible and had driven him to the hospital. The officer had told him that Watson was alive, and that should have been more than enough. And yet still, Holmes found himself staring down at his compainon's bloodied, bruised shoulders when he should have been burying himself in the depths of London and turning his mind to the case at hand.

_Just to make sure, _he had told himself. _Watson would do the same for me._

Of course not. Watson would never be so ridiculously paranoid. Watson would accept the facts and move on. But still...

_Just to be sure._

He leant closer, narrowing his eyes at the angry-looking red wounds that trailed across the pale skin of the shoulders and right side of the back. Some were still weeping blood, glistening in the soft light of the room. But they were clean, and though they looked painful they would not be permanent. For the first time since coming to in that dark cobble-stoned alleyway, Holmes felt a sickening rush of relief.

"Making a fuss over nothing, Watson," he complained softly. "Its simply attention seeking. Just because you're leaving, it doesn't mean..."

His voice trailed off. That's right, Watson was leaving. He'd tried time and again to get used to the fact, but he just... couldn't. His coldly calculating mind just couldn't accept it. He reached out, pushing the thoughts forcefully from his mind, and squeezed Watson's arm briefly. An effort to destroy any hard feelings between them towards the future and just offer up that brotherly friendship he needed so badly.

"Goodbye, Watson," he said.

Sharp, quick footsteps from the corridor beyond caught at his ears and he let go quickly, bending nearer and adjusting his glasses. He knew that walk all too well. Sure enough within a few moments the door open and Mary appeared. She stopped, blinking in surprise at the sight of someone else in the room, and then moved forwards.

"Doctor?" Her voice was wary, questioning.

Holmes collected himself quickly, rolled the accent out over his lips. "The surgeon will be here soon," he said, leaning heavily on a German accent as he turned on his heel and strode past her, clipboard held to his chest. He felt her eyes on the back of his neck, and then heard the beat of her footsteps begin again as she moved after him.

"Wait. Please, wait."

Holmes ignored her, quickening his pace. _No, no, no. _He shouldn't have come. Idiot, getting so wrapped up in his feelings. Watson was fine, just as the officer had told him-

"Doctor!"

Mary's voice rang out, turning heads. Holmes stopped quickly. Number one rule of disguising oneself - never draw attention. She reached him and he waited, his shoulders tensed, ready to make a break for it if she decided to turn him in. But she didn't. She simply stopped behind him and stood silently, as if trying to think of something to say. Eventually she murmured, "Solve this case," before whirling around and heading back to Watson's room.

Holmes resisted the urge to look back at her, instead striding straight for the stairs before anyone looked too closely. He frowned slightly as he did so, turning her words over in his mind. Strange thing to say to someone. She must mean, 'solve this case without Watson'. Or, 'solve this case before Watson is hurt again'. Idiotic woman, he thought irritably. What does Watson see in her? Expected better from him...

And, complaints rambling through his mind, he slipped out of the hospital and into the street, pulling off his disguise within a few short steps as he went.

From the corner, Mary watched as Holmes ducked into the stair well and dissappeared before turning and making her way slowly back down the corridor. The nurses glanced up at her, offering comforting smiles, and she smiled back as much as she could. Her eyes caught sight of a telephone against the wall at the far end of the other corridor, and felt a sudden flash of hope. Surely it would be better to call straightaway. She moved to the phone and reached for it. She turned the dail and listened to it ring, chewing on her lip. She was about to give in and hang up when suddenly they answered, the voice low and gruff.

"He said not to call this number unless there was an emergency."

"There _is _an emergency," Mary replied, feeling a small stab of annoyance. They weren't the ones who had to hang around a hospital for hours waking for some local hero to regain consciousness. They weren't the ones who had to _pretend _and _smile _and... she shook herself. "It is," she repeated. "He survived."

"Survived?"

"Yes. And Holmes was just here visiting him. I thought he would... well, he didn't say anything and hasn't tried to move him."

"So he's left now?"

She smiled. So _now _there was interest, was there? "Yes," she said. "We're on the fourth floor. Will Dredger come?"

There was a smile in the man's voice as he replied. "I don't think he would pass up this opportunity."

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When Watson opened his eyes, the first thing he was aware of was the sharp, stabbing sting that was throbbing along his shoulders and back, and that it was very dark.

He tried to keep still, aware that if he moved he would aggrivate the pain even more, and let his eyes drift close again as a flow of soggy memories drifted through his bedraggled mind. The flash and roar of the explosions. Waking with a burning pain screaming through his body. Trying to listen to the officer who was crouching over him. Something about Holmes being wanted by the police, something about staying still, something about a hospital. A hospital, he thought, must be where he was now. It would certainly explain why he was clean, dry and lying on his side in a dry, white-sheeted bed. One arm had gone to sleep as it lay trapped beneath him, and it was beginning to drive him mad. Finally he shifted a little, moving the arm out as far as he could. Instantly a sharp jab of pain snarled in on him and he winced, biting back a moan.

Holmes might have been caught too.

He opened his eyes once more, squinting through the half-light. There was a single candle on the other side of the room, burnt low and close to drowning in its own cradle of molten wax. It did little to peirce the heavy blanket of darkness that had set over the rest of the room like a plaster cast, refusing to receede no matter how hard Watson stared into it. He was alone... wasn't he? He had a vauge, dull memory of a familiar rough hand on his arm, a gruff voice muttering quietly.

_"...fuss over nothing... leaving... goodbye, Watson..."_

He blinked, trying to clear his scrambled thoughts. Yes, Holmes had been here... and that meant that he must have escaped. He remembered once more that firey explosion, remembered screaming with all he had, throwing out a hand as Holmes came to an abrupt halt a few metres away. Well, at least one of them was free. Although why they were even wanted in the first place was far beyond Watson's semi-conscious mind.

The pain wasn't getting any worse, but neither was it going away. Watson closed his eyes once more and tried to return to that blissfully pain-free darkness once more, but for some reason sleep wouldn't come. He shifted uncomfortably in the crisp sheets, his brow creasing in a frown. _What? _he thought irritably. _Why did I have to wake up anyway...? _The thought offered two answers. Either the pain had become worse than it previously had been and pulled him out of unconscious, or...

...or something had woken him.

All at once, Watson's nerves were on edge and his eyes were wide open once more. He held his breath, straining his ears for any sound at all. A thousand thoughts rampaged through his mind, racing through the possibilities, of which there were few. Either Holmes had returned - very unlikely - one of the doctors or nurses had felt the need to come and check that he was still breathing - somewhat unlikely considering his not-too-serious condition - or Mary had arrived and was coming to see him - slightly more likely. He remained still, waiting, still not daring to breath. His skin was prickling, his muscles were beginning to tense warily, sending small stabs of pain down his back.

_Cre-eak._

That was all he needed to hear. Without waiting another moment he sat bolt upright, ready to snatch up whatever was closest to use as a weapon or just simply run, but before he could move another inch his back screamed with pain and he froze, panting. He cursed, drew breath to shout for help instead - and a dark, rugged figure leapt out of the darkness towards him. Black-fingernailed hands clamped down over his mouth, muffling his yell. Instinctively he brought his fist upwards, lashing and kicking, but his back was throbbing so badly that black dots were beginning to dance before his eyes. The man - for it was a man, a scrawny, dirt-smeared man grabbing at him - snatched his fist without difficulty and forced it down and behind his back. A second pair of hands closed over his other arm and shoulder, wrenching him to the side and out of the bed. He landed heavily on his knees on the wooden floor, his back and neck on fire, his heart thundering, his blood roaring in his ears. He tried to bite down on the hand which muffled his screams but the man was holding his jaw shut with his other hand, his arm curled around his neck. He tried to kick the other man away but his brain pushed the action through too slowly and the second man easily avoided him and kneeled on the back of his legs, holding him down.

_I can't do it..._

Panicking, Watson gave one last desperate thrash against his assilants but the first man wrenched his head back mercilessly and tightened his grip, forcing a choked gasp from Watson's crushed throat.

"Quietly," he growled, smirking. "We want to do this nice and subtle, like. So you just keep your mouth shut."

Anger rose up in Watson's chest and he struggled again, his back still burning with fierce pain. A series of heavy, thudding footsteps moved across the room from the door, the floor groaning under the immense weight. Watson felt another pulse of fear as his eyes slid across to fix on the third man, one who he had not yet noticed. The huge, burly giant of a human stopped before him, playing with the thick iron crowbar in his beefy hands, his own face dancing with the satisfaction of one who has won, and knows it.

"_Bonjour_, Doctor," Dredger said, smiling widely. _"Le tempus pour aller."_

_Time to go, _Watson translated rapidly in his head. Fear blinded him once more, and he began to fight as hard as he could. The man holding his legs grunted.

"Hey!" he snarled. "Either you stay still, or we do something about it."

Watson ignored him. And so it was that within three seconds of the words leaving the man's house, Dredger brought the crowbar down on his temple with a sickening _crack _and Watson was lurched back into the black of unconsciousness.

**Sooooo.......... anyone interested? If not, don't bother reviewing and I'll give it up now while I'm ahead. :)**

**Few more points before I go.**

**a) The French I translated on a google website, so it might not be right. Apologies for any mistakes.**

**b) Dredger, for anyone who didn't know, is that French guy Holmes throws the hammer at but it bounces off and has no effect whatsoever. :D  
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**c) Finally, I'll have lots of exames in the next week because I've just started my mocks, so please forgive me if I don't manage to update for a while. I'll do my best.**

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.  
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	2. Smoke Rising

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. (P.S. Sorry, always forget to stick it on the first chapter! :D)**

**Okay.... First of all, I'm honesty amazed at the response this fic got. I was expecting, what, five or six reviews maybe? All I can say is thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, and this story is dedicated to you lot who gave me some feedback on the very first chapter. Thanks also to those who favourited, alerted etc. Thank you, fanfictioners!!**

**Also thanks to those who wished me good luck with my exames. Means a lot to me! Thanks!**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language. Does also contain some spoliers (sorry!).  
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Sherlock Holmes threw open the door of his study in 221B Baker Street with a furious growl, his hair still plastered to his head and dripping steadily. He glared out, clutching the doorframe with damp, spidery fingers as Inspector Lestrade stared back at him, lips pressed together in a thin, anxious line. Holmes' face twisted into an ugly scowl and he thumped a fist against the wooden door in a violent outburst of anger.

"What in hell are you doing here?" he demanded, for once not bothering to be at all polite. "Do you not realize that approaching my house could jeapordise my entire plan? I am supposed to be wanted by the police, not welcoming tea visits from the cheif inspector! I cannot believe Mrs. Hudson even let you through the door."

His rant over, he whirled away and stormed into the room with the air of a teenager who has just been disturbed from the isolation of their bedroom. Suppressing a sigh of irritance, Lestrade stepped after him and closed the door quietly behind him. He surveyed the room with a mixture of disgust and facination - the desks overflowing with papers, letters, documents, books, pens and various oddly shaped instruments; the chairs drowning in discarded coats; the scientific or home-made experiments balanced precariously on small, round tables; the collections of cups dumped on every surface, some still containing cold tea; the spiderwebs stretching across the ceiling hung with dust and flies; the bookcases almost buckling under the weight of a huge range of litertiture; the huge curtains which hung across the windows, almost obscuring any sunlight that dared to enter the darkness of the room... Inspector Lestrade turned his gaze slowly towards Holmes, who had spun to face him and now stood with his arms folded, his eyes narrowed.

"Well, then?" he prompted testily. "I assume you do _have _a reason for directly ignoring my instructions?"

"Yes," Lestrade said softly, his gaze awkwardly forced away towards the mess once more as he caught Holmes' eye. "Although if you knew whom the news concerned you may not be so eager to hear it."

Holmes' expression twitched. He looked the Inspector up and down, then returned his gaze quickly to the other man's face. For once, he remained silent. Lestrade turned away, pacing slowly across the room. He removed his hat from his head and fiddled with the rim, trying to look anywhere but at the detective who was still eyeing him like a hawk. Clearly the most successful detective in London had not missed that there was something seriously wrong. He wet his lips nervously, still wringing the brim of his hat.

"But... before I tell you that, I must ask you - what did you learn when with the Home Secretary?"

Holmes studied him silently for a few moments, and Lestrade almost thought he wasn't going to reply, but then he pushed his wet hair out of his face and let out a sharp sigh.

"Blackwood plans to trap the Lords of Parliment and murder those who refuse to side with him. His method, I assume, will resemble his usual parlour tricks, although the matter of how is still... well, I have almost all the peices of the puzzle. All I need now is a closer look, although I am fairly sure that his plan is to use some kind of gas mechanism, which will most likely seep from the sewers below the Houses of Parliment and into the halls." He paused. "As always, I will appreciate your help... _after_ I have secured the case."

"Yes, and usually that only happens in the very moment before all is due to be lost," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "But you have a time, and a place?"

"Indeed. Although I'm slightly perplexed at why you even feel the need to ask," Holmes said, managing a small smirk and folding his damp arms. "Have I ever failed you before?"

The Inspector hesitated. "No... but I feel that, once you hear my news, your attention may be... divided."

Holmes' eyes were now sparking with a strange, fierce glare which made Lestrade want to continue the coversation only when there was a brick wall between them. He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself to just speak and get it over with, but before he could do so Holmes broke in.

"Yes, so do I, seeing as you have just come from the hospital judging by the smell of the meat pie shop on the corner that lingers around you and the chalk smears on your sleeve from the stall on the way." His eyes narrowed even further. "And your face is pale and shows strain and distinctive features of panic, all of which point to, admittedly, several conclusions but all of which are not at all welcome to my ears."

"Yes," Lestrade repeated. He squared his shoulders, stopped in his pacing, faced Holmes properly. "When the nurses went to check on him a few hours ago, Doctor Watson was not in his room. They had left him to rest - they thought his wife was with him - but..." He swallowed hard. "Well, neither of them can be found. And there were signs of a struggle."

Holmes stared at him, his face completely and utterly emotionless. Then he turned away and strode over to the window, staring out onto the street. Lestrade stood in silence, unable to speak, unable to move. All he could do was wait. Holmes' stood imobile, his shoulders rigid as if carved out of stone, his arms tightly crossed. He spoke abruptly, his voice gravelly and shaking with suppressed rage, and something which sounded almost like... well, Holmes couldn't possibly be crying.

"Why," Holmes growled quietly, "_Why _the _hell _wasn't I told sooner?"

Lestrade had been expecting anger and blame, but he still felt his cheeks flush slightly. "By the time I was told, your plan was already in motion, and to disturb it would have been reckless and could have palced the whole city in danger. I had a moral duty to the people of London to make sure Blackwood will be caught-"

"Well, I hope you are very proud," Holmes snapped, whipping around from the window. His glittering eyes bore into the Inspector, ringing with anger. "I'm sure everyone will applaud you for chosing the _greater good."_

His last words were spat with a venom so strong that Lestrade almost took a step backwards, but he held his ground. He stared the unshaven, slightly shaking detective in the face and kept his own voice level as he spoke.

"I am truly sorry that this happened. I thought he would be protected. But if you are to find him and his wife - whatever state they may be in - I ask that you come with me now to the hospital. I gave orders for no one to touch his room." He paused. "Will you come?"

Holmes gazed at him for a few moments, as if lost for words. Then he snorted and turned on his heel, striding towards the wardrobe on the far side of the room. "Well, what do you think, Inspector?" he demanded icily. "I will join you downstairs."

And, relieved to finally be let off the hook, Lestrade turned and moved out of the room as fast as he could without showing his feelings as Holmes flung open the doors of his wardrobe and stared into it blindly, as if he had suddenly become utterly and completely lost.

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When Watson finally fought his way back to consciousness, he was absolutely certain that he was no longer in the hospital. A dark, uneven mottled wall stretched upwards just inches from his nose and large slabs of a stone floor pressed hard against his side and shoulder, sending a dull, heavy ache up through his limbs as their relentless cold spread through him. His back was stinging in repetitive, angry throbs that made him wince as he opened his eyes and his head pounded gently. A concussion, he thought blearily. Thick, crusted dry blood clung to his forehead which seemed to be the source of the pain. Not surprising really... he tried to roll over onto his back but instantly the muscles of his chest screamed in agony, his head whirled and he sucked in a sharp gasp of surprise. His arms were tied behind him, pushing his shoulder blades together when he moved. Which did nothing to soothe pain.

He took a few seconds to allow his spinning head to settle and the pain to back slowly into the depths of his body, and then gingerly tucked his knees up to his chest. With a huge effort he threw his body up, rolling his weight over onto his knees. The world tilted sickeningly but he forced deep breaths in and out of his throat and managed to stay upright. Finally he could look around, his wrists still secured behind him, his back still aching painfully.

He was in a room. _Well, Holmes would be proud, _he thought dryly. The floor was stone, and dipped unevenly in certain places causing a couple of muddy brown puddles. The walls were crumbling brick. The room was small and square, and directly ahead of him was the pale light of an ancient wooden door. So little light was creeping through the gap between the door and the floor that the corners of the room seemed to dissappear into darkness, habouring childhood monsters lurking in the blackness. Watson ran his eyes once more over the room. No windows. One door. No furniture, nothing he could use as a weapon... in other words, he was definately in trouble. He looked down at himself, studying his own condition once more. His back was still clearly in a bad state and when he breathed in too far his chest hurt. He hadn't noticed _that _in the hospital. Bruised ribs, probably. Along with the concussion... well, that rendered him next to useless. He was wearing the grey trousers of his suit which, in the haste to attend to his back and then allow him to sleep, the hospital had not removed. No shoes, and no shirt. Even as the thought crossed his mind goosebumps rose on his skin and he shivered.

Conclusion then... get _out. _As soon as possible.

He could clearly remember the three men - one of which he knew had been Dredger - who had come to the hospital. That meant there were at least three men out there, all of which were strong, healthy and more than likely to be armed... there was no way around it; he was rapidlly running out of options.

_Oh god... where's Mary?_

His head instantly jerked to the side, scanning the room he already knew was empty another few times. No sign of her. A sudden, raw panic ripped through him. If she had been hurt over him, if they had done _anything _to her he would murder them himself. It was all Holmes' fault. He had wanted to leave, wanted to just marry Mary and enjoy the rest of his life peacefully, but that damn Holmes had led him into yet another pack of wolves. Only this time things were looking considerably worse than past situations. But Holmes... his panic faded slightly. If anyone could find him, Holmes could. Even though he was wanted by the police. Even though London hung just out of reach of the clutches of a madman. Even though Holmes' brilliant mind was probably the only one which could stop Blackwood...

_If he gives up this case to find me,_ Watson thought, _I will kill him. _But surely Holmes wouldn't be so recklessly whimsical to throw London's fate to the police and come wandering into the streets of London to find him. He wouldn't. He _shouldn't. _So Watson would do something about this himself. He had handled worse in the past, and he would handle this situation just as he would any other.

So, clenching his jaw, he pushed himself up onto his feet and waited for the world to stop dancing before making for the door. Already he was moving his wrists, rubbing them against each other, trying to loosen the ropes. They were tight - he could feel several knots pressing against his skin - but he thought he felt them give a little. He reached the door and leant forwards, studying it carefully. The wood was ancient and cracked, slightly blackened with age. The door knob had been removed on his side. Experimentally, he placed his uninjured - mostly - shoulder against it and pushed. Several locks resisted him and he heard the door knob on the other side grate against something. _Wonderful..._ he listened, pressing his ear against the door. He couldn't hear anyone outside.

_Well, then..._

He took a step back from the door and braced himself, clenching his abdominal muscles in preperation. If he could just ignore his head and his back and his chest... he steadied himself, and then lashed out with one foot and struck the door with his heel. The impact sent his head spinning once more, and to make matters worse the door barely shuddered. But, without stopping, he sent another attack. He set up a rythm in his head - kick, pause, kick, pause, kick, pause... nothing. But he couldn't give up. He was going to get out of here if it was the last thing he did, and he would find Mary and-

All of a sudden, the silence was broken by a loud shifting sound from outside. Watson froze, and then took a few rapid steps backwards and stood ready, knees bent, hands frantically moving between the bonds. All too quickly the locks were pulling back and the door swung open, revealling a tall, wiry man. His hair was short and a dirty blond, sticking up from his head in rough tufts. Dust was smudged over his face, and he wore a jacket which didn't fit him properly, implying that he had most likely stolen it recently. He stepped inside, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Watson's heart leapt - over confidence. The quality that brought down all intelligent men. This was a perfect chance to escape. Even as the man opened his mouth to begin, Watson took one sharp step forwards and swung his knee upwards, aiming for the man's stomach.

What happened next was very fast and, for one of them, very painful. The man dodged out of the way easily and Watson's head swung. He overbalanced, stumbling. The man grabbed him by the shoulder, tore him upright and sent two strong, hard blows into Watson's face. As his head pulsed in agony the man kicked him hard in the back of the knee and sent him crashing down, fisting a hand in his hair in order to wrench Watson's head upwards. Watson's head was screaming, blood flowing hard and fast from his nose, his cheek throbbing, but he bit back a yelp as the man's grip tightened.

"Quite a violent man, aren't ya?" The man spoke through teeth which were clenched in a savage, triumphant smirk. "Ah expected more from t'leader of Sherlock Holmes' fan club. Or d'ya consider yaself more of a bodyguard?"

Watson could already feel himself seething with fury, but he forced himself to keep still. If he could just wait for this man to relax his hold just a little, he would be able to stand suddenly and shove him off, maybe make a break for the door... even he could tell the plan was absurdly far fetched. The man moved his head closer to Watson's ear, his greasy hair rubbing against Watson's neck. The wet heat of his stinking breath rushed into Watson's cheek.

"Now, this is how we's gonna work in t'future, righ'? In t'future, ya gonna go over ter t'corner when ah come in, and ya gonna stand with ya back ter me. Now, d'ya understand tha'?"

Watson kept his mouth firmly closed. The man was beginning to relax his grip a little. Watson paused a moment longer, and then forcefully surged upwards, ramming his shoulder into the man's chest. Instantly agony attacked his back, and the man shoved him roughly back down with embarrassing ease. As the pain rushed through him a hiss pushed through his lips, and he froze quickly. The man laughed breathlessly.

"Tha' hurt, does it?" The man moved his free hand up and with a sudden venom dug his fingers into the bandages on Watson's back.

Pain roared up in a fiery blaze and Watson clenched his jaw, pressed his lips together to hold it in. The pressure increased as the man ran his dirt-filled nails down his back, pressing them in as hard as he could. Automatically Watson's body bucked upwards and a harsh yell screamed from his mouth before he could restrain it. He tried to stop but he couldn't, the agony was overwhelming him and his vision was flooding inky black and he could feel something warm and sticky rushing down his side. Aburptly the pressure stopped and Watson dropped towards the floor, gasping for breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The man let him fall and rose to his feet, wiping his hand on his trousers.

"Ah'll expect a proper answer next time," he said, grinning widely to show yellowed teeth, several of which had been knocked out in past fights. "So, ah'll ask again. Do ya understand tha'?"

Watson lay winded on the floor, trying to make the pain receede, trying to relax his trembling muscles. He couldn't think anymore, couldn't decide what to do. His mind was too sluggish, too slow. To his disgust, he found himself jerking his head in a nod.

"Good," the man said, proud of his victory. He shoved his hands into his pockets, surveying his prey which eyes that were hollows in his gaunt face. "So, ter business. My name's Joel. An' from now on, _I _am the one in charge."

**Okay, chapter done! Did you like it, or did it bore you? I know not too much happened in this one, the story's still getting started. Still, reviews make me write faster... :D  
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**Please review!**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.  
**


	3. Written in Ashes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed!  
**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

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_"An' from now on, I am the one in charge."_

Joel's words rang with arrogance and a laughing, taunting mockery that made Watson's blood - which was currently trickling over his face and down his sides - burn with rage. With a rush of fury, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and lifted his head, his own thoughts obvious in his glittering eyes. Joel's smile faded slightly, and something that looked almost like fear rushed across his face. Then, his face twisting in a savage scowl. As if to convince himself of his own superiority, he stepped forwards and swung one booted foot forwards. Watson felt his body crumple once more beneath the blow and the ground rushed up to meet him as the pain returned with a vengance. Joel let out a bark of laughter and moved forwards for another attack.

"Teach ya ter-"

"Arrêt!"

The gruff, sharp command compelled them both to freeze - Watson on his side on the floor, Joel about to lift his foot again. A second figure had appeared in the doorway, this one much larger and far more recognizable. Joel span around, stepping quickly away from Watson and lifting his hands as if Dredger was pointing a gun at him. Dredger's eyes moved from Joel to Watson and back again. His face contorted as he struggled to think, and then spoke in a slow, halting voice.

"What... doing?" he demanded, as if each word was a rock he had to vomit up.

Joel, however, did not look amused. Instead he forced an unconvincing smile, looked quickly down at the floor, and spoke in a much quieter, uneven voice.

"Nuthin' mate, nuthin'. Jus' heard 'im tryin' ter get out, so ah came ter... well." He swallowed hard. "He attacked me first, ya know."

Dredger frowned, but then a third man appeared at his side, inching past him into the room. His hair was long and black, hanging around his face in thin, greasy waves. His face was contorted, as if he was permanently looking down on everyone around him. He surveyed Joel with cold, grey eyes. When he spoke his voice was tinted with some sort of northern accent, and much softer than those of the other two.

"Dredger told you not to touch him until we came back, Joel," he said, glancing down at Watson as if he was a diseased corpse. "If you're going to get any share at all of the profits, you'll have to pay better attention."

Joel looked relieved at the other man's input and nodded earnestly. Dredger rolled his eyes and pushed past the black-haired man into the room. Watson scrambled backwards, trying to rise to his feet, but his hands were still tied behind him and he couldn't get balanced. Dredger reached him with three swift strides and grabbed his arm, yanking him up off the ground. Watson scrabbled to stand as the larger man dragged him across the room and thrust him roughly against the wall, lifting him right off the ground and placing his forearm against his throat. With another fruitless burst of resistance Watson lashed out with both feet, striking the other man in the stomach. Dredger raised one eyebrow slightly.

"I wouldn't bother," the black-haired man said, moving slowly forwards. He walked hunched over, shoulders rounded, arms wrapped around his chest. He chewed on the thumbnail of his left hand between sentences, his eyes flicking around the room. He gave the impression of some kind of rat, about to take flight. "Dredger barely feels it. He don't speak much English, so he's asked me to talk instead."

"Ah could _talk," _Joel growled sadistically, moving closer, but Dredger shot him a glare and he reluctantly fell back. "Fine," he grumbled. "Ralph'll do it."

Ralph - for that seemed to be the name of the rat-like man with black hair - took his nail out of his mouth long enough to speak, his voice still quiet. "As you've most likely guessed, you're here under Lord Blackwood's orders-"

"Yes," Watson rasped, and the pressure on his throat easing slightly. He sucked in a deep breath, and then glared at Ralph and Dredger in turn. The wall pressing against his back was bringing him a steady sting of pain, but he managed to keep it from entering his face. He spoke, breathing hard, his voice shaking slightly. "No doubt you hope to distract Holmes from Lord Blackwoods plans. I can tell you now that it will not work."

"Is that so?" Ralph asked, a fleeting, thin smile flying across his face. "Then why is it we saw the Inspector visiting Holmes' house today? Where he stayed, might I add, for almost half an hour?"

Watson kept his face blank, but within his emotions crashed together. Relief that someone was coming for him; despair that Holmes might be about to rise to their bait and ignore the case. He swallowed hard, glancing quickly at Dredger who was smiling.

"Now," Ralph continued, his voice slightly breathless with the thrill of his miniscule victory. "Lord Blackwood told us that we may do as we wish to, ah... _exterminate _Holmes' lapdog. And looking at those two," he added, nodding to Joel and Dredger, "Yours is going to be a long one."

He turned and shuffled out of the room, returning his thumb to his mouth. Watson opened his mouth to shout after him but before a single word out get out Dredger dragged him away from the wall and threw him towards the ground. Watson managed to continued the momentum on, rolling up onto one knee, but the pain that was beginning to burst up every time he moved sent darkness rushing across his vision. He swayed, trying to blink away the black - and a fist hit him in the face.

It was so unexpected that after he had caught himself from dropping face-first to the ground with his elbow, all he could do was stare blankly at the ground. He sensed a movement out of the corner of his eye and desperately threw himself backwards. Joel's foot whistled past his face, missing him by inches. Acting more on instinct than anything else, Watson twisted to the side and lashed out with both feet at Joel's supporting leg. The other man crumpled at once, dropping to the ground with a hard thud. Spurred on by his success, Watson kicked again and caught Joel in the face as the other man attempted to sit up. Even as he prepared to attack again two hands the size of dinner plates grabbed him and jerked him up off the ground. Dredger's face appeared inches from his own, and Watson's heart jerked. Since that last blow his head hadn't stopped spinning, and he very much doubted that he could fend off an attack from this man even if he was in full health. Dredger pushed his own face close to Watson's, baring his teeth in an animal snarl.

"Finish," he snapped.

Watson heard Joel rise to his feet behind them, breathing hard with anger and pain. And this time when Dredger hurled him to the floor, he did not get up.

* * *

By the time they reached the hospital the sky had darkened and the streetlamps were being lit. Now entering the building free from a disguise, Holmes couldn't miss the heads that turned as he and the Inspector passed. His stomach clenched a little more every time he heard someone whisper his name, every time a pair of eyes widened as they caught sight of him. If his plan had not been ruined before, it was now. Word spread fast in London, and surely Blackwood would have found out by now that the police were not offering a reward for Holmes' capture after all, but were instead working with him once more. But it wasn't the fact that his plan was over that made him feel guilty - it was knowing that he would willingly sacrifice London for his own selfish fear of losing his closest friend.

Watson's room had been left untouched, as Lestrade had ordered. Two policemen stood guard outside, sending away anyone who tried to enter. They nodded to the Inspector and detective respectfully as the two men approached, but Holmes' didn't miss the startled glance that passed between them. Still, they kept quiet as Lestrade pushed the door open and stood back for Holmes to enter. Holmes stepped forwards slowly, pushing his hands deep into his pockets as he turned his gaze over the room.

Signs of a struggle indeed. The sheets had been torn halfway off the bed and lay pooled on the floor where they had been thrown. The bedside cabinet had been overturned and the basin which had rested atop it was now shattered on the floor. The pillows hung limply off the side of the bed. But for once the mess was not the first thing that drew Holmes' gaze, but the stark scarlet that was spattered against the white of the sheets. Clearly in this struggle, Watson had certainly not come off well.

He moved further into the room, tearing his gaze from the blood and looking instead at the floor. He crouched down on his knees and trailed a finger over the floorboards before inspecting the result. Then he straightened and moved to the window, bending to look at the ledge. Lestrade hung back in the doorway, once more fidgetting with his hat as he waited for the verdict. After a long few moments he spoke up.

"Holmes?" Holmes turned to face him. The Inspector waved a hand over the room. "What do you make of it?"

Holmes looked once more around the room. "They came in through the door," he said, gesturing to it. "There are no marks on the window, and no dirt beneath it."

"Dirt?"

He strode over, knelt down once more and pressed his fingers against the ground before rising and holding them up. Stuck to his fingers was a small collection of red-grey dirt. Holmes rubbed his fingers together and the dirt crumbled easily.

"I would infer that this came from the mud at the docks," he said, almost to himself. "When wet it clings to everything like tar. When dry it crumbles away into dark sand. There is very little other dirt like it."

He paused, and then licked the powder gripping to his skin. Lestrade winced in distate, but kept his mouth shut. Holmes considered the taste thoughtfully, and then gave a single nod as if confirming his earlier theory. He wiped his hand on his trousers, gesturing jerkily to the bed.

"And the... ah, the blood suggests Watson did not leave of his own free will." He turned and walked over to the bed, eyeing it with a strange expression. He picked something off the mattress and studied it. "A brown goat hair..." he looked down again. "... several, in fact. Our targets came through the area in the docks which deals with ferrying animals to and from shore."

"That doesn't mean they would return there, does it?"

Holmes turned to face the Inspector, his mouth firm and unsmiling. "Who would suspect three men carrying a large sack through the docks? And yes," he added. "There were three. I'm quite sure."

"Then we will go to the docks now," Lestrade began, but Holmes shook his head.

"No. Its too dark now. Not enough people. Evidence cannot be interpretted if it cannot be seen." He sighed, his eyes narrowing. "It will have to be tomorrow." He swallowed hard, and then pushed past the Inspector. "I'm finished with the room," he muttered.

He could feel Lestrade's eyes on the back of his head as he made for the stairs, but he didn't turn._ Tomorrow_, he thought darkly. _Tomorrow, when twenty four hours will have passed since Watson was taken. Which makes tomorrow twenty four hours too late. He could be dead by tomorrow._ Anger and guilt pulsed in his gut, but he knew that no matter how many times he returned to the room he would reach the same conclusion. The docks were his best hope of tracking down Watson. In the past he had solved such cases with a single glance around the scene, one glimpse of the suspects. And this time, when he was most desperate, all he had was enough to lead him to the next clue. It was as if the people who had taken Watson had been careful to leave just enough to keep him guessing, just that little bit less than he needed.

He was almost one hundered percent certain that this was a diversion to take his focus off Blackwood. And yet still, he couldn't help but follow it every step of the way.

**Not much on Holmes in this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it. Remember, reviews make me write faster! ;D  
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	4. Heat

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed!  
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**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

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Watson woke to the sound of voices, low, alien noises which reached out to brush his ears from beyond the door of his prison. He could pick out around three different people - the low, halting rumble of Dredger; the faster, lilting tone of Joel; a higher, softer female voice which rang bells in his mind. _Irene Adler? _he wondered dazedly, but almost at once he decided against that idea. Adler's voice he would know at once. This one still brought him confusion. It wasn't Adler, but it was someone he knew, someone he spoke to often... he scowled angrily, blaming the steady throb of his whole body for his slow deductions.

Slowly, gingerly, he pushed himself up onto his knees and winched, looking down at himself. Yellowing bruises covered his chest and spread over his abdomen, the result of the events of the previous day. His face felt stiff and painful, and he could feel a worrying combination of wet and dried blood clinging stubbornly to the side of his face and upper lip. His arms were still tied - he had no free hand to wipe it away. But still, despite his screaming head, his back remained the worst. If he accidently shifted the bandages - which he had several times in the night - the dried blood that now caked them tore venemously at his skin and sent him struggling to breathe through the agony. In all honesty, if it hadn't been for the concussion that still hung over him like a damp cloud, he wouldn't have slept at all.

As it was, he did. Though none too easily.

He lifted one foot and crouched there, one knee still glued to the floor, trying to steady himself. Then, with a huge effort, he shoved himself upwards. Darkness hit him at once and he fell back against the wall, barely noticing how his back punished him for it. His own heavy, laboured breathing rushed in his ears - sharply in, shuddering out, sharply in, shuddering out. Eventually his breaths began to even out and he realized he had his eyes squeezed shut. He opened them, focussed blearily on the door. The voices were still debating, and although he could catch the odd word, he could not for the life of him understand what they were saying. He curled away from the wall and headed over to the door, his legs trembling. The voices became no clearer. If only they would-

"Fine!"

The yell was so abrupt that Watson flinched. _Joel. _His voice was exasperated and irritated, and grew louder as he strode closer.

"Alright! Ah said ah'm doin' it!"

The door ripped open and Watson stepped back quickly, trying to ready himself, but once more his head jerked the world out from under his feet. Hands closed over his arms from behind and pulled him forwards. His body collapsed readily into the grip, and he hated himself for it. They were out of the room by now. This was his perfect chance to escape, and yet he could barely see where he was. He blinked hard, trying to destroy the darkness blotting out his vision. Joel dragged him around and thurst him back against the wall, holding him there by his shoulders. Watson lifted his head, squinting through his dim vision, and finally got a look at where he was.

This looked to be the only other room of the building he was in. It was made of the same ancient, crumbling bricks and the floor of the same stone slabs. The door to his right was the one to his prison, and there was another one directly ahead which was painted a glossy black and stood ajar. Beyond Watson could hear the muffled sounds of some kind of market place, and could see the pale shimmer of cold, mid-day sunlight. No other doors at all. Stacked at the edges of the room were several boxes and crates - some overflowing with rotten food, others nailed tightly shut. A few dark clumps of matted straw were strewn around the room, and in here there was a definate smell of animals. Ralph was sitting on one of the crates, chewing once more on his thumb with his tiny, rat-like teeth. Dredger was standing in the corner, his arms folded, a scowl fixed on his face. Whatever was happening, he was clearly not happy about it. And standing before the door, her hands folded atop the handle of a parosel, a decorative hat pinned at a tilt on top of exquisitely curled hair, wearing the very dress he had bought her not five days ago was... Mary.

_Mary?_

He blinked hard, sure his eyes were deceiving him. But if it was really Mary, surely she would be in the hold of one of the men, or coming to push Joel away, or stepping close and placing her hands on his chest at the sight of him. Surely - _surely - _with blood crusting the side of his face and the bruising on his chest, she would show some glimmer of concern for him? So it couldn't really be Mary, because this Mary was... was smiling at him. Smiling in a sad, sympathetic way as if she had just seen a dog with only three legs and thought, 'Oh, poor little puppy.' It was so confusing, so abrupt that all Watson could do was stare at her.

"Hello, darling," she said brightly, cocking her head to one side as if talking to a young child.

Watson's voice had abandoned him and vanished, along with his stomach. He gazed at her, a poor subsitute for speech crawling from his lips in a rasp. "M-Mary?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, still in that bright-but-oh-so-sympathetic simper. "Oh, you look terrible. I hope they're not being unneccersarily cruel?"

Joel sniggered. "Of course we are," he said, grinning.

Mary smiled and rolled her eyes, shot Watson a look as if to say, 'what can you do?' She moved forwards, reaching out to touch Joel's shoulder.

"Would you be a gentleman and give us a moment?"

Joel mimed taking off a hat to her, bowed low and let go to walk over to Ralph. Watson barely spared him a glance, keeping his eyes fixed on Mary. _This is it, _he thought in a sudden wild rush of hope. She was here to help him. She'd been sent by Holmes or something - that's right, it was all some bizzare plan Holmes had cooked up to get him free. It didn't matter if it didn't make sense; Holmes' plans never did. Mary reached out and gently wiped at the blood on his cheek, her touch just as soft and electrifying as it had always been.

"Darling," she repeated quietly. "I honestly wish I hadn't had to do this. Blackwood said it was only a back up plan, just in case. And I must admit, as time went on, I truly did begin to like you. You understand, don't you? You understand how hard it is for me, how I have no choice?"

It was as if she was speaking some alien language; her words just weren't making any sense in his head. He tried to understand her, he tried to put her words into some order in which they would say what he needed them to say, but... but it wasn't working... He heard his own voice speak, dry and hoarse.

"Wh-What?"

"I needed the money," she explained, shrugging slightly. "I was desperate, John. You must know what I mean. I needed help, and Blackwood promised to pay regularly. I had no choice."

"No choice..."

_No. This isn't happening. Its not true, its all just to... to create some kind of... diversion or... it can't be... _But there was no lie in Mary's face. For the very first time since he had first gazed into her eyes, there was no flicker of secrecy. She was telling the truth... and his heart was slowly shattering within him, each word a blow to the thin glass the muscle had melted in to. He struggled upright and away from the wall. He would have seized her by the arms, held onto her like a lifeline, maybe shaken her to make the horrifying news vanish. Across the room Joel took a sharp step forwards, pulling a knife from his belt in a wordless warning. Watson ignored him. Mary was still smiling sadly, leaning closer.

"I really am sorry that it had to turn out this way."

"You're lying." His voice was shaking wildly, threatening to either dissolve into sobs or rise to an uncontrollable scream. "You don't mean it. You don't mean any of it. Mary-"

"John." She slid her hand behind his head and pressed her lips against his. For the first time they felt cold and indifferent, and sent tremors of horror down his spine. She broke off, backing away from his unresponsive lips. "I just felt that you should know," she said, "That I really do love you."

God, she was smiling. He loved that smile, and yet now it terrified him. Without another glance she turned away and headed towards the door.

"Thank you, boys," she tossed over her shoulder, and the men nodded to her - Dredger sulkily, Ralph eagerly, and Joel hopefully. But she didn't spare them another glance either, and was already pulling back the door to leave. Watson's body jerked into motion and he staggered forwards, making a clumsy lunge after her.

"Mary! No, stop! Come back, you don't... I can't... what're..."

His sentences stuttered and jumped like a broken record player. Joel stepped into his path, still holding his knife. Watson tried to push past him but he lifted his fist and delivered a single, sharp blow to his face. Blood exploded in his mouth and, before he could stop himself, he swallowed it reflexively. The metallic rush made him feel sick, but he kept pressing forwards.

"Hey! _Hey!_" Joel shouted, struggling to shove him back with the hand not holding the knife. "If ya don't stop, ah'm gonna-"

But Watson never heard the end of that particular threat because at that moment he launched himself forwards hard, and Joel pushed forwards to meet him. Fire exploded in his side and he let out a harsh scream of pain, the sound bursting from his mouth before he could control it. He bit his lip shut quickly, struggling to breathe. He looked down to where Joel's knife was burried up to the hilt in his side. Joel's eyes had widened slightly in shock, but now he smirked again and twisted the knife visicously. As blood began to cascade down his side, Watson still kept his eyes fixed on the door in the blind, insane hope that it was all some sick, sick joke.

* * *

The docks were crowded with people. Ships floated on the ebb and flow of the tide, bobbing gently up and down. Some sailors pushed their way through towards the town, relieved to be home - others struggled hopefully towards the sea as they began their next journey. Women carrying various objects, calling out offers to people passing by, offering three for a shilling or one for tuppance. Men carried supplies, animals and crates to and from waiting ships, shouting to one another. All were blissfully unaware of the shaggy haired, stubble-edged man who sat on the wall opposite the pens where the goats were kept and watched.

Holmes had really only just arrived, but already he was quite sure he was staring into the wrong place. The pens of various coloured goats seethed and spread over most of the far corner of the port, but offered no secret hiding place in which to stow a human being. He glanced downwards, toeing the thick mud consisting mostly of waste, sea water, rain water and sand which clung to the stone of the port. He had been right about this. His targets had definately come through here, but the question was where they had gone next. And, after watching people walk to and fro before him, he was still at a loss.

Sighing heavily, he pushed off from the wall and landed with a soft squelch in the mud. Mrs. Hudson would not be impressed when he returned. He began to walk slowly towards the other side of the port, taking his time, casting his gaze over the crowds. All he wanted was one little thing to give him hope, just a tiny offer of where Watson would be. It was beginning to look more and more as if he had run into a dead end, and he didn't like that because he knew he _hadn't. _His interpretation of the room had been correct. Unless someone had left a false trail in order to deter him even more. But he would have known...

"For god's sake, Holmes!" He muttered furiously to himself. "Pay attention!"

He stopped in the centre of the throng of people, pushing his hands into his pockets and glaring around himself. He could see nothing, _nothing _that would-

His thoughts broke off as his eyes caught sight of two people emerging from between the goat pens and moving towards the crowd. A man and a woman. Most importantly, a woman who he recognized. Mary Morstan smiled at the thin, pale man who had accompanied her. This was someone Holmes did not know. His hair was short and a dark, messy blond, sticking up from his head and giving him the appearence of a half-shaved laborador. He smiled a smile which looked several times too wide for his face. He offered a small bow to Mary, who batted her eyes a little before turning away and walking through the crowd towards the road. Holmes followed her with his eyes for a few moments, and then when he had decided where she was going, glanced back to the man.

Who was staring back at him.

The man's face paled rapidly, and without a moments hesitation he turned and sprinted into the groups of goats. Holmes leapt forwards to follow, but there were too many people. He couldn't get through... by the time he cleared the mass of people, the man was gone. He cursed under his breath, and then turned to look for Mary who was just vanishing around the corner into town. He began to move slowly after her, his brow creasing in a frown.

_"Solve this case."_

"Just which case did you mean, Mary?" he murmured. "Why do you know something I do not?"

And, a deadly, cold anger rising in his gut, he quickened his pace and gave chase.

**Its heating up! :D Thanks for reading!**

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	5. Merciless Dead

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed!  
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**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

**ALSO: this chapter has some different behaviour from Holmes. I'm not sure if everyone will agree, but I'm trying to show his fear. Hope you like it!  
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Lingering in the shadows of the alleyway leading off from Brooke Street, Holmes couldn't help but feel that he was completely and utterly wasting his time. He pulled his pocket watch from his pocket and checked it, then returned his gaze to the street. Brooke Street was one of the finer places to live in London - the doors were fanned with decorative stonework, precise, black railings ran along the houses to sheild the windows from the street, elaborate curtains could be glimpsed through huge windows and the people who moved among the carriages and cabs were dressed in exquisite, detailed dresses and carefully tailored suits. Only the occasional average person ducked through the pairs of the upper class, and as they did so those carefully made-up eyes stared straight through them.

Poverty did not exist here. Why try to see it?

Holmes looked again at his watch, even though he knew it had been exactly twenty two seconds since he had last glanced at it, and that Inspector Lestrade still had not graced the streets with his presence. In a few hours it would be getting dark, and then once more any chance of discovering Watson's location would either be one hundered times more difficult to achieve, or impossible.

"Good god, what could you possibly be doing, man?" Holmes mumbled to himself, trying to lean against the damp wall.

He was too restless to relax. Every now and then a violent, primitive rage would raise its ugly head in his chest and roar into his throat, making him want to scream out loud. All he could think about was watching her leave the docks, that airy smile on her face. _If she did... _He didn't know that she was behind any of this. He had no real proof. _But if she did... I'll make her pay..._No, he wouldn't. He could take a fully grown man down within seconds, but he would never stoop so low as to place a blow on some sparrow-limbed lap dog like Mary. And Watson would never forgive him... he smirked at that thought. If only Watson could see his angelic bride-to-be now. The smile didn't last long at all.

A familiar hat appeared among the bobbing heads along the pavement, and Holmes eagerly stepped out from the shadows and strode forwards to meet the red-faced Inspector who stopped and took a few deep breaths, trying and failing to stop panting.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. The cab had a problem and... well." He looked up. "Thank you for waiting. You're becoming far more responsible in your old age."

Holmes didn't smile. "Hopefully so are you," he muttered. "This is taking too long. Come on."

Lestrade fell into step beside him, and they made their way towards the house on the left further down the road. It was one of the smaller ones, the door just that bit shabbier, but it still sang with the air of someone who was well off and knew it. Lestrade was still talking.

"Listen, I thought you should know... I've just come from the Houses of Parliment. You're theories were right once again; there was a machine in the sewers below, fixed to dispel a deadly gas which would have killed everyone in the halls. Including Blackwood's own people, who seem to believe they would have been safe... well, we're still trying to puzzle out that detail."

Holmes didn't even look at him. "Good," he said shortly.

He stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to Mary's front door and strode up them. Lestrade trotted behind him and waited as he rang the bell, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Are you sure about this, Holmes?" he asked softly. "I thought she had vanished too? And even if we're wrong and she simply returned home, if we made some kind of mistake... She's his wife. She was due to marry him-"

"I know," Holmes said, his voice still clipped. "It changes nothing."

The door opened to reveal a young maid. From her neat yet slightly ruffled appearence, she looked to be one of the few - maybe two to four - people employed by this family. She had an open suitcase under one arm, and a smear of ash on her wrist, a couple of dresses looped over her other arm.

"Can I help you?"

"Mary," Holmes said, fixing his burning eyes on her. "Tell her Holmes is here to see her."

The maid's face cleared slightly - perhaps she had heard Watson mention his name before. But then, these days, his name was in the papers long enough to give him away at a single mention of his first name, let alone his second. She stood back, motioning them in.

"Please, wait in here," she said, gesturing to a door to the left.

Holmes brushed past her, the Inspector following him slowly. The room was a small tea room, complete with ornate couches and tall glass table lamps. A handstitched rug covered most of the polished wooden floor. Lestrade took a seat and pulled his hat from his head in his usual manner. Holmes couldn't sit. Instead he folded his arms and fixed his eyes on the window opposite him. People passing by. Watson wanted to be like them. Ordinary. A family man. No matter how hard he tried, Holmes would never understand. He couldn't imagine anything more horrible... and yet, he had seen the way Watson cared for the ladies on their previous cases, how he strived to help them. How his eyes had burned with tears when, whilst chasing a fantasy Hound haunting the Baskerville family, they had not been in time to rescue Miss. Stapleton. And the few children they saw - how he spared a second glance for the Ferguson's baby, accused of being fed on by a vampire.

_Next time, I promise to understand, _he thought bitterly. _If there is a next time..._

As the cold thought settled over his shoulders like a mantle, the door opened and Mary appeared. Holmes instantly ran his eyes up and down her, just to make sure. Yes. The mud on the hem of her dress she hadn't yet had time to change, the colours of the matireal. He'd definately seen her there. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes widened as she approached them, looking first at him and then to Lestrade.

"Officer, Mr. Holmes? Have you learned anything more of John's abduction?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am," Lestrade spoke, as Holmes was deliberatly staring at her without speaking. He wanted to unnerve her, he wanted to scare her. Let her know how it felt. Lestrade glanced at him, and then continued. "In fact, we were hoping you could help us with some of the finer details."

"Finer details?" she repeated, blinking a few times.

"Well, for example," Lestrade said. "When was the last time you saw Dr. Watson, again?"

"Not since the night before he vanished," she replied, casting her eyes skywards. "I stayed with him in his room, but then the doctors explained visiting hours were over and that I must return home. The next morning-"

"You said nothing," Holmes interrupted. "In fact, the Inspector here was quite sure you, too, had been taken until you showed up in the docks today. I can assure you, we were both most surprised to see you completely unharmed and seemingly un-affected by the situation at hand. And ordering your maids to pack for a fast depature, no less!"

Lestrade had fallen silent, maybe surprised at his sudden, direct outburst. Usually the plan was to force the suspect to reveal something before predicting their plan - but this time Holmes was not playing by the rules. Mary's eyes had widened again, her mouth opening.

"My husband had vanished! I thought the same people could be after me. I went straight home, I thought-"

"Tell me again," Holmes said over her. "When was the last time you saw Watson?"

She stared back at him. The ghost of a smile twisted her pale lips. "At the hospital," she said softly.

Shewas lying to him, and she was enjoying it. And just like that, something in Holmes snapped - no, _exploded. _One moment he was staring at her, anger building fast in his chest, the next he was gripping her by the wrists and giving her one sharp push back against the wall. Behind him Lestrade leapt to his feet, crying out. Real shock leapt into her eyes, but he didn't care. Never in his life had he lost control so completely before. Never had such inhuman rage consumed him so completely. Never had his clear, calculating mind dissolved into such chaos. She tried to break free and he tighted her grip, pinning her wrists against the wall.

"I know you saw him today! I know you went to where he was being kept! _I know!_" His voice screamed from his lungs. He wasn't even shouting - his voice was more of a clenched, hard growl - and yet to him his words were loud as gunfire. "This is because of _you, _and you _will _tell me where he is!"

She stared back at him. "You saw me at the docks?" she asked, her voice sweetly innocent. "Why, then you already know where he is."

"Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me _now, _or I'll-"

"You'll what?"

His eyes flickered over her. A single punch to the face. A knee to the stomach, winding her. A sharp chop downwards with the blade of his hand into her neck would cut off her air. It would all be over so fast. Physical recovery time - _never. _Psychological recovery time - _never. _

"Holmes! I demand that you stop this insane behaviour at once!"

Lestrade's voice reached him. The Inspector was standing beside them, actually reaching within his coat for his gun. Holmes looked back to Mary - and caught a flash of red. Red traces on the gloved fingers of her right hand. Blood. He swallowed hard. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He felt sick. He felt... he looked her in the eye.

"Is he dead?" he asked, his voice level and quiet.

Mary had given up the act. Her lips twisted up into a dreamy, bland smile. "He will be," she said softly. "Its a shame. I really do love him, you know."

Her words sent disgust rippling through Holmes, so much so that he let her go and took a few sharp paces backwards, his mind reeling. She gazed at him, her hands hanging limply where they had dropped.

"I do," she said earnestly. "You don't understand. Blackwood said he would pay me, and I needed it. And he was so... beautiful... was...." her head tilted to one side.

Lestrade reached for her, and she didn't fight him as he locked the handcuffs into place around her wrists. "She's mentally disturbed, Holmes," he said, his voice shuddering with repluse as he turned her around to face the wall, one hand on her shoulder. "We can't trust anything she says."

Holmes kept staring at the back of her head. Her fine, golden hair caught in the light, sickly sweet. He wet his lips. His mind was still spinning giddily, uncertain, uneven, but he had to ask.

"Where is he?" he repeated, his voice low.

She turned her head a little, not to look at him, but to stare into space. "Oh no, Mr. Holmes. Lord Blackwood is a great man, but he terrifies me more than you ever will. I will never reveal his secrets."

* * *

They put him back, and he kept bleeding.

He had to put pressure on the blood, stop the bleeding, somehow find something to bandage it with... maybe some of his old bandages.... His mind was stuttering, breaking down in the centre of thought. He couldn't bring himself to think properly. He couldn't do anything. No matter how many times he tried to concentrate on the blood, tried to shift into a better position to help block the flow of blood, he always ended up returning his mind to her. Her beautiful, terrifying face. Those eyes glittering with honesty, that soft smile he had loved so much. He was still moving his hands, doing his best to get them free. Maybe the bonds were loosening, maybe they weren't. He couldn't really tell anymore. Couldn't feel much either.

_You were right, Holmes... you're always so damn right..._

His blood pumped from his side steadily, thickening with every beat of his heart. He couldn't feel the pain anymore. Maybe this was what dying felt like... a sudden fear gripped him. No, he wasn't ready to die just yet. If he could just get his hands free then he could do... do something. He wasn't going to let three lowlifes destroy him and the life he had worked so hard to achieve. When he returned to Baker Street, Holmes would laugh at him for being so childish and letting himself melt into his own fears. Holmes would roll his eyes and say, 'Good god, Watson, you are quite mad.' Maybe if he could somehow get to Baker Street everything would work itself out.

Abruptly, one hand slipped out of the ropes and he tumbled to the side in surprise. He managed to catch himself and sat up, inching back against the wall, the sudden rush of agony sharpening his mind. He had actually closed his eyes then without noticing it. This was a dangerous moment. He could not let himself drift off or he may never claw his way back again. He pulled his other hand out from behind his back and examined his wrists, the ropes lying in wide loops on the floor beside him. He'd actually done it. He'd wriggled out. Red burns marked his skin where he had been straining against the bonds. Never mind... he pressed his hand against his wound, and then let out a short yelp of pain. Apparently he could feel again, and feeling hurt a lot. Now after a few minutes he could maybe untie some of the bandages behind his back and use them to stop the bleeding. Things would be alright, surely.

He leant forwards, gasping, breathing hard through a clenched jaw. He moved his free hand up behind his back - and a burning, coppery heat rose in the back of his throat. He crumpled forwards onto his knees, snatching at the ground to hold himself off it, choking and retching. His body was instinctively trying to swallow the stuff down, panicking. He coughed harshly, and something dark flecked his lips and dribbled down his chin. He retched dryly again, and then it was over. He knelt on the floor, shuddering and shivering, trying to breathe evenly. Slowly, he lifted a trembling hand and wiped at his mouth. It came away red and sticky, and his stomach lurched in fear.

_Oh no, no, no..._

Blood glistened on his fingers. It wasn't much but it was there... _oh god, no, please no, not now... _He shook his head. It didn't mean that, he told himself fiercely. Just because there was blood in his throat... why, it could be anything. It could have been the blood he swallowed earlier coming back up. It could have been some illness he hadn't noticed before due to the beatings. Just because it was happening, that didn't mean it meant....

_...internal bleeding..._

He couldn't stay upright any longer. He slumped back against the wall, gasping for breath, his eyes flickering closed. His time was rapidlly running out.

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	6. Fading Spark

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed!  
**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

* * *

The next morning brought a damp chill in the air which smelt like death.

Holmes pulled his coat closer around himself as he moved through the murky, misty streets of London. It was early - perhaps too early for him to hope that fate would toss him a bone - but still he was heading once again for the docks. Inspector Lestrade had sent him a telegram late the night before. Mary still wouldn't say where Watson was, or much of anything else. They were still lost. The thought of that bloodstained glove, those faded, widened eyes sent pulses of rage through Holmes blanking out his common sense. He pushed the memory of her face away. Seething over her wouldn't help find Watson, it would just distract him. And now, on the third day of his companion's abduction, he couldn't afford any distractions. He was desperate.

_"You saw me at the docks? Why, then you already know where he is."_ That was what she had said. She had given him that much, and that was what he was going to work on.

Despite the fact that it was only just nearing ten thirty, the docks were still alive with movement. He couldn't imagine them ever being empty, couldn't imagine a moment when there wouldn't be a man's shout ripping the air or someone pushing past him with a sack under each arm, or when the huge masts of the ships were not swaying as sailors climbed to see to the sails. He made his way towards the wall he had comandeered the day before and sat down on it, turning his piercing eyes over the masses of people.

Now that they knew that Blackwood was definately behind it all, he could begin looking for the criminal's followers. Dredger had not shown his face in the last few days, and so he was on the list. As well as the black-haired man who had seen Mary off. That was good. He had two suspects. He might just be able to solve this case in time.

_Unless I'm already too late._

As the thought hit him the damp fingers of the mist pressed his back in a freezing caress, and he shivered it away. _Stop it. Don't think that. _But he was a realist, and a realist would accept that it had been far too long. What reason could Blackwood have for keeping Watson alive? It had been three whole days. People didn't need three days in which to die.

Time passed. The sun floated hesitantly higher, peering through the dull clouds, blurred and dark in the folds of the mist. People came and people went. Two ships set out on new journeys, one returned carrying boxes which sent exotic, spicy smells swirling through the air and turned heads. Holmes shifted uncomfortably on the wall, scanned the docks for the hundreth time. If it started growing dark and the only thing he had done was to stare at strangers, he would be furious with himself. Why was he wasting his time here? Mary could easily have been lying. He could be in the wrong place completely. Why couldn't he just _think..._

With a sudden rush of anger and fustration he decided. That was it. He was going home. He would contact Lestrade and maybe some of the street people he was more friendly with, who often gave him information for money or a meal. That was what he should have done in the very first place. He pushed himself off the wall and plunged into the crowd, stamping back towards the main road into town. Stupid of him to even try again, in a place he had already looked at. It was just a stupid waste of-

His thoughts broke off sharply as a woman bumped into him head on, and the two packages she was carrying jerked from her fingers and hit the floor. Holmes faltered, muttered an apology, turned to retrieve the package closest to him. She was babbling at him, half angry and half reluctantly apologetic, scrabbling to pick up the other one. Holmes crouched down, his hand closing over the brown paper wrapping. Two booted feet walked past him, sending mud flying up and spattering his face and jacket. He scowled, his patience snapping, and looked up. His shout building in his throat, his eyes fixed on the man who was still walking away.

_Him._

The man who had seen Mary off. The man with the black greasy hair. He was even wearing the same clothes. Holmes crouched motionless, amazed at his luck. If he hadn't been kneeling, the man would have recognized him and made a bolt for it. It had been so close... the woman appeared at his side, holding out her hand for her package. Holmes shoved it at her, resisting the urge to kiss her with joy, lurched to his feet and strode after the man. His heart beat hard and fast in his chest, singing with relief and savage triumph.

_Finally. Finally!_

The man was heading through the goat pens. Holmes followed him at a safe distance, keeping his pose relaxed, his eyes fixed on the back of the man's head. He looked awkward, nervous. Every so often he glanced around, wringing his hands together anxiously. Holmes wished he had brought a hat, or at least some kind of disguise. Instead, he pulled his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth and bent his head forwards, casting a shadow over his face. The man turned suddenly to the right and vanished into the high wall which ran along the edge of the port beyond the goat pens. Holmes' heart jerked and he quicked his pace. A tiny alleyway came into sight, only about half a metre wide. Holmes almost had to turn to the side to get through. He wondered how Dredger had managed it. The black haired man turned a corner ahead and Holmes reached the same place before stopping, peering around the bricks.

He'd made the right choice - ahead the alleyway opened out into some kind of area behind most of the other buildings surrounding the port. A tiny, one-floor building sat in the centre constructed out of ancient red brick. Crates and boxes lay scattered about the place, some overturned, some shattered to splinters. Outside the one, black painted wooden door stood two other men - Dredger and a lanky, dirty-blonde haired man. Dredger stood against the wall, his arms folded, his eyes smouldering. The other man was sitting on a small pile of boxes smoking, the plumes of smoke swirling gentley towards the sky. Their voices echoed towards Holmes and he pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear.

"Ralph!" the blonde man greeted, standing up. "Did ya get it?"

The black-haired man - Ralph, apparently - pulled a rolled up newspaper from within his coat and tossed it to him. "You can't even read," he muttered.

"Like the pictures, don't ah?" he replied, spreading the newspaper out on his lap.

"Holmes?" Dredger grunted, his brow furrowing.

Ralph shook his head. "I thought... nah, didn't see him."

"Well then, nuthin' ter worry about," the blonde man said flippantly, pawing through the newspaper. "No news on us. Holmes has nuthin'. The job's nearly done."

"Speaking of, what about him?" Ralph asked, nodding to the building. "Been in to 'check' again, Joel?"

Holmes' heart leapt and he narrowed his eyes, hope flinching in the back of his mind. _'Him' _could only mean one thing. He strained to hear them, swallowing hard.

"Haven't heard anything," the blonde man - Joel - said. "And _no,_ ah haven' been in."

Dredger stepped forwards. "Blackwood?"

Ralph shook his head again. "No news. I think his game is up."

Dredger scowled, and then turned and strode into the building. Ralph followed, leaving Joel outside with the paper.

Holmes pulled away from the corner and leant back against the wall. This was it. He could bring down Joel and then go in to find Watson... and be flattened by Dredger along the way. He shut his eyes. There was no way he was going to be able to pull this off on his own. And this time, he could not risk ruining it all just for the rush of excitement he received from the peak of a case. He almost screamed in fustration - here he was, Watson's location just metres away from him, and he was going to turn away. It would take valuable time to organise everything, to contact Lestrade and put everyone in place. He swallowed hard. Then he peeled himself away from the wall and began to walk slowly towards the docks.

_I'm coming back, _He promised silently. _I will come straight back._

And yet, he couldn't figure out whether the promise was to Watson or himself.

* * *

The blood might have slowed, and it might not have. He wasn't sure. In the darkness of his prison, he wasn't even sure if his eyes were shut or wide open. He wondered dimly if he was dead or not. Maybe. If he was, he had completely missed his own passing. Holmes would laugh at him for that, surely. But no, he couldn't be dead, because his side was still throbbing and he could still feel heat on his fingers. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had awoken in the hospital with three men preparing to take him. More than a day. Less than a week. Something like that.

Holmes hadn't come for him yet.

As much as he had tried to tell himself that he could deal with the situation alone, as much as he had tried to believe that Holmes would be clever enough to put London first, deep down he had always thought that the detective would come for him. They kept an eye on each other, watched the shadows for each other. Without that trust they had built up, they would never have come so far. And that trust had told him, whispered in the back of his mind, that no matter what the situation was, Holmes would come for him. Just like Watson would come for Holmes if their places had been reversed. And yet, Holmes wasn't here. He had never taken very long to solve cases like these - a couple of days at the most. How hard could it have been to track him? Unless Holmes had just stopped caring and gone back to his violin. Would he do that?

He could feel cold stone against his cheek. When had he decided to lie down? Or maybe he had fallen... yes, that was more likely. He lifted his heavy, trembling hand and moved it over to his side until he felt blood. There. If he just left it there, he could tell himself he was still trying to survive. That was what life was really supposed to be about - hanging on just that bit longer, just to take a few more painful breaths, just to beat that terrifying abyss teetering on the edge of the mind. He thought he could sense it now, just out of sight. It would be so easy to fall into. It wouldn't hurt so much there either.

He decided that his eyes must be closed, because now there was no light at all.

**Sorry if this chapter was a little short. Nearly at the climax now, so take a deep breath! :D Thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

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	7. Flare

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed!  
**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

* * *

Darkness, and the only sound was the gentle lapping of waves against the stiff walls of the docks.

Holmes crouched in the shadows a small distance away from the alleyway he had discovered earlier, his eyes fixed on the dark opening. This time he felt no impatience, no building anger as Lestrade's absense continued. He knew exactly what the Inspector was doing, and he knew exactly what would happen after he arrived. Deep in his stomach a gnawing fear hovered, just noticable enough to prod at his mind whenever he tried to imagine coming through this case victorious. Just enough to remind him to force himself not to think about _that _outcome, the ending which might be rather than the one he wanted.

He shifted slightly on the hard ground, his shoulders jerking in a shiver as the damp mist sank into his skin. It had become thicker since the morning, and now he could barely see past a few metres in front of him. Not the best conditions for a perlious rescue, but it couldn't be helped. He wasn't prepared to wait any longer, not now he knew where Watson was being kept. He had a duty, both to himself and to his friend. And to give the abductors what they deserved. He ran his tongue over his dry lips, risking removing his eyes from the alleyway in order to take a quick glance around the docks, most of which were hidden from him by the mist. He couldn't see anyone...

A shadow suddenly appeared a few feet away from him and he started, his hand delving into his coat for his revolver. Usually he accidentally-on-purpose forgot to bring it with him, and consequently received an earful from an angry Watson. This time, it had been impossible to forget. He dragged it out and held it ready, his eyes fixed on the figure as it stole closer. It looked around, saw him, and moved forwards, shoulders heaving in obvious relief. Holmes relaxed and lowered his revolver, but did not put it away. This was now the time he may need it. Inspector Lestrade dropped to his knees beside him and looked around fugitively.

"Anything?" he whispered.

Holmes shook his head. "Are we ready?"

Lestrade nodded grimly. "I have a small group of policemen stationed in the buildings around the place you mentioned. They are ready to come in at the first sign of trouble."

"And the dog?" Holmes prompted.

Lestrade pulled a small silver whistle from his pocket and let Holmes stare at it for a few seconds before replacing it in his coat. "Several, actually," he murmured. "Trained and ready. How on earth did you come up with that?"

Holmes smirked. "Well in my experience, trained hounds can be very effective, ghostly or not."

Lestrade frowned, but didn't ask what he meant. Holmes took a deep breath, and then rose to his feet and moved forwards, his stomach flipping with a mixture of dread and excitement. Lestrade followed inches behind him, retrieving his own gun.

"Remember to follow my lead," Holmes muttered as they neared the corner at the end of the alleyway. Lestrade snorted.

"I should be the one leading," he complained, but then nodded.

They reached the corner and stopped as one. Holmes leant forwards, peering cautiously around the brick, just as he had earlier that very day. The squat brick building was nearly obscured by the swirling grey mists, tinged slightly blue by the faded moonlight. No movement hinted at a surprise attack, no sound suggested company. Holmes could see no one, but that was not much comfort in this fog. Dredger could have been standing right next to the building, and Holmes would have looked straight past him. He swallowed hard, and then jerked his head at Lestrade and inched out into the open. At once the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his stomach curled into a tight ball of tension. The awesome silence billowed out around them, as if mocking them, waiting for that moment when everything would explode with a sudden and undeniable failure. And yet, somehow, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest, Holmes reached the building and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. Lestrade followed suit.

This was it.

Holmes gripped his revolver with white-knuckled hands, still managing to keep his face expressionless. He wanted, more than anything, to do this stealthily. They had no idea how many people Dredger had at his disposal, or where any of the three men he knew of were at this moment. If they could slip in, take whoever was there down quickly and quietly and then leave with Watson, no one would be hurt and everything would be fine in a matter of seconds. Of course the police were there in case things got really hairy, which was extremely likely. Holmes took a deep breath, put out his hand to grasp the doorknob.

Of course, nothing was ever that simple.

Before he could convince himself to think rationally, he shoved the door open and swiftly strode inside, his gun swinging upwards to aim before he had even seen what was coming. His eyes took in several boxes and objects lying about the room, and a man sitting on a large crate with a newspaper spread out before him. He chewed on his thumbnail as he read, his greasy black hair swinging forwards to hide his face. _Ralph, _Holmes thought. He trained the revolver on him as Lestrade joined him, turning in a full circle before facing the man too. Ralph hadn't even looked up.

"Tha' article was about a dog saving a drowning man, not someone losing their pet," he grumbled. "Next time I'll read it first, before you-"

He looked up at last, and broke off. His eyes widened, flicked to the door, and then to Holmes and the Inspector. Holmes' finger tightened on the trigger as Ralph leapt to his feet in surprise, letting the newspaper fall.

"Here!" he yelped. "How'd you fi-"

Holmes took two fluid steps forwards and, silently calculating the distance between his fist and the wall, hit Ralph hard in the face. The man jerked back in shock and his head connected sharply with the wall - he swayed, and then dropped to the ground. Holmes nudged him roughly with his boot, but he didn't stir. He turned as Lestrade approached cautiously, his gun still levelled at the man's head.

"Where are the others?"

"I don't know."

More to the point... Holmes ran his eyes over the room. They came to a rest on a wooden door in the opposite wall, one he had initially missed in his hurry to discover any threat. Two heavy iron bolts held it shut. Holmes' heart jerked and he strode forwards, pushing his revolver back into his coat. His hands fumbled on the locks in his haste and he swore under his breath. He finally got the door open and leant inside, looking quickly around. His eyes fixed on a dark shape on the ground towards the back of the room, turned away towards the wall. Holmes stared at it. He felt suddenly frozen, as if he had left his stomach on the other side of the room. He forced in a breath, and then dragged his hand away from the wall and took a step into the room.

"Watson?" he called, his voice tiny in the pressing quiet.

No answer. _Damn, no, no, no... _Holmes' legs suddenly remembered how to work properly, and he lunged forwards. He dropped onto his knees beside the prone figure on the floor and reached out to grab the pale shoulder. Cold skin. His heart in his mouth, Holmes pressed his other hand against the motionless back. Bandages stiff with blood met his palm. Steeling himself for the worst, Holmes pulled him over onto his back. The body fell limply back under his hand, unresponsive and silent.

The first thing he saw was the amount of blood which shimmered black in the darkness, covering Watson's stomach in a thick mass. The next thing was the state of his chest and face - the yellow-purple bruising and the dried blood on the side of his face and from his nose. Even in the darkness the damage was impossible to miss... Holmes kept his grip on his shoulder, aware that his own were trembling.

"Watson?" he repeated hoarsely.

Lestrade called his name from the other room, and then appeared in the doorway. He looked into the room, and then spoke softly. "Dead?"

Holmes didn't want to check. If it was that answer, if he had failed, he just didn't want to know... he moved his hand upwards and pressed his fingers against Watson's cold neck. He couldn't feel anything. His stomach heaved, his whole body shuddered. He didn't move, fingers still flat against the freezing skin. _I'm too late. I should have come straight away. Why, why, why did I take so long? Did I really expect to find him alive after dithering around London for so long? _He was so busy clawing towards the realization that the thoughts racing through his head were true, that he almost missed the tiny flutter against his fingertips. He looked down sharply, his eyes narrowing. There it was again - a weak, stuttering pulse flickering hesitantly under the skin. Holmes nearly screamed in relief, nearly felt bitter tears of joy prick at his eyes. But he did neither. Instead he shifted forwards and pressed his hand over the bloody wound at Watson's side, raking his brain for whatever Watson did in these kinds of situations. Try to stop the bleeding somehow, surely.

"Not quite yet," he threw over his shoulder, allowing himself a savage grin. "He's alive. We'll have to carry him out, he's unconscious."

He leant closer, wiping at the thick blood that stuck to Watson's left eye. Watson's eyes moved sharply beneath their lids, rolling blindly from one side to the other. Hopeful, Holmes tapped his cheek lightly.

"Watson?" he asked. "Can you hear me? Come now, I've come all the way in here and you won't even greet me?" Watson's eyebrow twitched slightly. Holmes bit his lip, and then raised his voice once more. "Inspector, come on. I don't want to stay here any longer than is nessercary."

Lestrade didn't answer. Holmes frowned, checking the wound under his hand. He couldn't tell if the bleeding had slowed at all... where was the Inspector? What was he playing at, hanging around in the doorway? Strange he would suddenly be so quiet... Holmes froze. Then he turned sharply, groping for his revolver, just in time to see the iron crowbar come snapping down through the air to hit him across the face. There was a flash of white, a stab of pain and a heat on his lip as blood burst from his nose, and then nothing but blackness.

* * *

When Holmes clawed his way back to consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was that his hands were tied behind his back and that was definately not a good thing.

He opened his eyes, wincing as his head throbbed, and then tried to shift himself upwards. He was leant back against the wall, Lestrade at his side and conscious. Holmes glanced at him quickly, and he looked back with a clear answer in his eyes. No help was coming. He hadn't managed to blow the whistle. Holmes forced himself to relax, and then turned his gaze to the three men who stood before them. Ralph was rubbing his head and wincing, his eyes out of focus, clearly having only just regained consciousness himself. Joel looked furious, and yet somehow savagely triumphant, his eyes narrowed and his arms folded tightly. Dredger just looked. At Holmes, to be precise. Joel met Holmes gaze and grinned widely, striding forwards.

"Awake then, are ya? Ah feel like ah should clap or somethin' - its the great Sherlock Holmes!" He gave a sarcastic round of applause. "Not so great now, huh?"

Dredger smiled. Even if he couldn't understand, he was clearly enjoying the situation. Holmes shot him a scowl and then looked back at Joel, glaring at him coldly.

"Come on, then," he said. "Why haven't you killed us yet?"

"Because, surprisingly enough, ya got somethin' we want," Joel replied. "Lord Blackwood, to be frank."

"Blackwood," Lestrade replied through clenched teeth, "Will be hanged by tomorrow. And _properly_ this time."

"Right, right," Joel said, cocking his head. "Only, ya the one who can stop that, can't ya Inspector?"

Lestrade looked quickly at Holmes. Holmes shook his head.

"No one's releasing Blackwood," he said flatly. "Face it. You're all desperate. Your master's in prision, and you haven't been paid for all the trouble you've been through. You need to get away before anyone can connect you with him, but you have no money to do so. And I can tell you quite honestly that things are only going to get worse for you."

"Sorry to ruin your speech, but _you're _the ones tied up," Ralph interrupted, his voice slurred and breathy. He tried to scowl at them, but he still couldn't focus and it didn't come off quite as well as he had attempted.

"He's got a point, ya know," Joel said. "But that's really ya answer? Nah?"

"No," Lestrade said firmly. "Officers of the law do not make deals with lowlifes of your standard."

"That so?" Joel asked, arching his eyebrows. "Ya seem ter have forgotten something'." He looked Holmes in the eye, still grinning smugly, and jerked his head to one side. "See, we've still got the good Doctor in there. Want ter ask him what he thinks?"

Holmes just stared at him. He was bluffing, he had to be. They weren't seriously considering-

"Right then," Ralph growled. "Go and get him, Joel."

And, still with that horrible smirk fixed on his face, Joel straightened and strode into the other room. Holmes watched him go with a sharp, rising panic which threatened to engulf him completely.

Because this could only lead to something terrible.

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	8. And The Lights Go Out

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed!  
**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

* * *

As Joel made for the room where Watson still lay unconscious, Holmes felt a wild and uncontrollable panic tear through him and began to twist his arms sharply, trying to pull free of the ropes tied around his wrist. They were loose - the men must have been in a rush when tying him up - but it were still going to take time for him to work free of them. Time he just didn't have anymore. Dredger grinned at him, provoking an acidic rage. This was _not _going to happen. Not to Watson. No today, or any other day for that matter. But no matter how positively he tried to think, the problem still remained; they were in charge. Squriming and wriggling on the floor beneath them, he felt as useless and dangerous as a fish thrown from the water and onto the beach. He had none of his usual air of control, and that made him unsteady with anger and bitter fear.

Holmes glanced quickly at Lestrade as Joel left the room. The Inspector had closed his eyes and was twisting his back slightly, trying to reach something in his back pocket. Dredger hadn't noticed and was watching the doorway, waiting for Joel to return. Ralph was still rubbing his head and wincing blearily. Holmes felt a small surge of hope. If Lestrade could get free, if he had some kind of knife in there, he could blow on the whistle, the police force outside would get their signal and come running, and they may just be able to snatch back the upper hand in time. If not... goosebumps rose on his skin and he continued to tackle the ropes around his wrists.

Across the room Joel reappeared, dragging Watson with him by one wrist. Holmes checked his companion breifly but found no help there - Watson was still unconscious. If they were going to win this, it would have to be without depending on any help whatsoever from him. That was unnerving too. He was so used to having Watson there to keep an eye on him, stepping in when things became too rough. Joel dropped said guardian unceremoniously on the floor about a meter away, and Holmes bit back the burning words teetering on his lips. No point making them more angry just yet. He had to play by their rules until his chance came.

Joel, clearly seeing the turmoil in his gaze, let out a short bark of laughter and pulled something from his pocket. A gun, Holmes realized. No, _his _gun. Joel must have taken it. He cursed silently for not hiding it better. Joel ran his fingers over the revolver's smooth barrel, grinning.

"Its nice. It'll be helpful ter me in the future. Ah suppose ah should thank you for it."

Holmes scowled. Joel smirked again and folded his arms. _Idiot_, Holmes thought sourly. Even he wasn't reckless enough to hold a loaded gun that close to his own body, pointing into his own leg. He willed Joel's finger to slip, but his prayers went to dust.

"Now," Ralph said, his voice still uneven and heavy. "We'll offer you three more chances. Give the order for Lord Blackwood's release, and we can stop all of this right now."

"You already know our answer," Lestrade said, still fiddling with his back pocket. Holmes couldn't tell if he'd managed to get whatever he'd wanted out or not, and he couldn't draw attention to him to find out. He kept his eyes on Joel instead.

"So that's a no?" the blonde man said, looking from Ralph to Dredger. Ralph nodded.

Without pausing for another second, Joel whirled around and planted a swift kick against Watson's chest. Holmes felt a flinch ripple through his own body, heard himself let out a harsh yell. Joel, ignored him, kicking again twice, three times.

"Wake up!" he hollered. "Hey!"

Through the blood roaring in his ears, Holmes heard Watson let out a soft moan. The beaten man's hand moved down towards his injured side, his face creasing sharply with pain. Joel reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him roughly up into a sitting position and spinning him around to face Holmes. Watson gasped as his side twisted, and his eyes opened. They met Holmes' gaze, glazed with agony, struggling to focus.

"There ya go," Joel smirked. "Bout time."

Holmes swallowed hard, his throat suddenly burning. Watson was still staring at him, squinting dimly through bruised skin, his gaze a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Holmes tried to think of something to say but his clouded brain came up with nothing. All he could see was the blood, those half-opened, bleary eyes fixed on his. The silence reached out between them, and when speech finally breached it, the words weren't what Holmes had been trying to find. They weren't something heroic or reassuring, not what Holmes wanted to bring. Instead, they came from him.

"Holmes..." Watson's voice was hoarse, rasping against his throat like metal against stone. It shook, but he somehow managed to speak through the agony glittering in his eyes. "What... what are you doing here?"

Holmes tried to smile, tried to offer some kind of comfort. "Oh, just dropped by for some tea and biscuits. Ended up having a chat with this _charming _lot," he added, his eyes flicking breifly to Joel, managing to keep his tone as controlled and usual as he could. He returned his gaze to Watson, who was still staring at him in that horribly glazed fashion which implied he was only half involved with this conversation. Which implied that some of him was already going. He lowered his tone slightly, trying to aim his words straight through the blank shell and towards the man he knew. "We won't be staying long. You alright?"

Watson took a few shuddering breaths, as if trying to steady himself. He blinked, but his eyes remained distant. "I've... been better," he said eventually, his voice softer than before.

The fact that he hadn't offered a witty response or jibe at Holmes' pride was worrying enough, not to mention the fact that he was admitting that something was really wrong. Holmes opened his mouth, but Joel spoke first.

"We was just talkin', ya see," he said loudly, making Watson wince as he tightened his grip on the man's bad shoulder. "We reckon we can let ya all go, if ya allow Lord Blackwood to go free. But these fine gentleman are bein' pretty unreasonable about it all."

"So, second chance," Ralph said, his voice finally beginning to sound a little clearer. His small squinty black eyes stared into Holmes, holding his attention. "Release Lord Blackwood."

Holmes wet his lips. Lestrade said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes saw a flash of silver in Lestrade's hand. A penknife? Small, but it might just be enough for the Inspector to cut himself free. Watson had shut his eyes again, leaning into Joel's hold, his hand cupped over his bleeding side. Holmes tried to think of something to say, tried to think of some way to prolong the situation, but his mind was still coming up blank. Whenever he tried to think of something clever to say, all he saw was the blood leaking between Watson's fingers. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Nuh." Watson's voice was suddenly hard, faint but steady. His eyes flickered open again, moving not to Holmes but to Joel, glimmering with definance. "No," he repeated, a little clearer this time.

Joel smiled, but it came out too thin. He looked at Holmes, and then lifted the revolver and cocked it. Holmes' heart jerked. _Too late, Inspector, _he thought, finally ceasing his struggles to get free. If he had to fight like this, he would. He shifted into an easier position, and then began to rock himself abruptly back and forwards. Flip up to his feet. Two strides to get him beside Joel. A knee to the face should stop him, followed by a... Joel put the revolver against Watson's head, his expression suddenly icy. Holmes' plan stuttered, his heart thundering in panic... followed by... something, something quickly before the others could react, maybe a... Joel pressed the barrel of the gun against Watson's bloody temple.

"Last chance," he snarled.

Holmes couldn't think. His brain had frozen, going over the same details again and again, refusing to move forwards. He had to concentrate, quickly before he lost the chance...

"Fine, then," Ralph said. "Joel."

Joel's finger tightened on the trigger. Watson's eyes moved to Holmes, suddenly filled with some kind of sad resignation. _No, no, no... _Come on, a knee to the face, and then maybe a kick to the breastbone before...

"Three," Joel said, his finger twitching. "Two. On-"

And Holmes' brain jerked out of standby. In one fluid motion he rocked backwards and flipped himself up onto his feet, used his momentum to carry himself forwards and ram straight into Joel as the gunshot screamed through the air. He felt a stinging pain on the side of his arm, but he barely noticed it. His vision was glaring red, anger pulsing through him, ruling out any kind of reasonable attack as his boot connected with Joel's face. Dredger's huge hands grabbed him by the back of his jacket and lifted him right off the ground, swung him around, and threw him towards a pile of crates in the corner. Wood spattered out around him, his ears sang as his earlier head wound jabbed at him again, something hard scraped against his wrists and the ropes came free. Dimly, he heard a loud, insistent barking from somewhere outside. That should mean something to him... Dredger's hand seized him around the throat and the giant lifted him high off the ground, his teeth clenched in anger. Holmes choked, scrabbling at the man's wrist with desperate fingers. Joel was on his feet again, blood flowing freely from his mouth, his eyes wild with rage. He waved the gun, his voice rising to a furious shout.

"Ah'll shoot yer both!! Don't think ah won't!"

Holmes kicked Dredger in the chest, his vision beginning to shudder with darkness - and the door to the building flew open.

Things happened alarmingly quickly after that. Policemen flooded into the tiny space, heralded by barking Alsations. Ralph yelled loudly before hands grabbed him, pushing him down to his knees. Joel flinched back into the corner, firing his gun wildly, and policement darted clear of him. Without pausing to wait for the others, Joel turned and sprinted from the building, vanishing through the door and into the mist. Two policemen followed, pulling a dog with them. Hands snatched at Dredger, another gunshot went off, and the huge man dropped to his knees with a crash and let go. Holmes staggered as he hit the ground, gasping harshly for breath, his vision slowly clearing. He looked up at Lestrade, who was rising shakily to his feet, the silver dog whistle still gripped tightly in his hand. Pale faced, he strode forwards to help his group control the criminals.

Holmes backed away, still breathing harshly, watching as Dredger gripped his newly wounded knee and Ralph cowered beneath the officers. He stared at them for a moment, amazed that his plan had actually worked... to some extent... he turned sharply, his eyes falling on Watson who was still on the ground where Joel had dropped him. In the rush to contain the criminals, no policemen had come to check him. Holmes darted forwards, swaying unsteadily, and dropped down beside him.

"John?" he called, his voice tipped with fear. "John, it's me."

Watson's eyes opened a crack, blinked dazedly up at him. "Holmes," he rasped softly.

"Afraid so," Holmes replied, allowing himself to relax a little. He could see no gunshot wound. Joel must have missed... he remembered the sting and looked down at his arm, surprised to see a small gash had gut through his skin and clothes beneath his shoulder. The bullet had just clipped him. He shook his head and returned his gaze to Watson, placing his hand quickly over the blood welling up in his side. Watson winced, his breath catching.

"Come now, Watson, stiff upper lip," Holmes said, doing his best to sound jovial, even though his voice came out pale and strained. "Its barely a scratch. You'll be fine in a couple of days."

A weak smile tugged at Watson's lips for a second, then he let out a sudden, wracking cough and blood leapt from his mouth to carve a slim trickle down the side of his face. Holmes' stomach dropped away and he clasped Watson's uninjured shoulder with his free hand, his panic rising as Watson's eyes drifted shut once more.

"Watson? Eyes open, Watson, I'm going to have to insist."

Watson's words slurred sluggishly together, trembling from his lips. "Looks... l-like I'll... finally... manage t-to... leave you..."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Holmes' voice was shrill, too high to be convincing even to himself. "You couldn't do it before, and you certainly can't do it now. Come on, eyes open."

Watson's breath hitched again, his head rolling to the side. Holmes felt something inside him scream in blind fear and he tightened his grip, shaking Watson's limp body. His throat was burning again, in that terrifying unpleasant way which gave way to feelings he didn't want to know. He had to keep himself together, especially now. This was no time to start caving in, not after everything that had happened.

"Watson? Watson, don't be so dramatic. Come on... please, Watson... _John!"_

**And on that bombshell... ITS ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER!! Sorry, just couldn't resist!! And anyway, its about time I did some revision for Spanish... would it be wrong to now ask for reviews?**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.  
**


	9. Flicker

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed! Also to those who didn't login, thank you for everything you said, and for reviewing.**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson pulled open the door to 221b Baker Street, clad in dressing gown and slippers, she literally felt as if she was staring into a scene from a horror story.

The night was pitch black and clouded with grey, billowing mists. The flickering light of a streetlamp at the base of the steps leading up to the house sent a harsh blaze of light over the still, heavy world. In the road before the steps stood the tall, black box of a horse-drawn cab, the animal snorting and stamping, fog streaming from its velvety nose. The doors lay open, Lestrade struggling through them. But that was just the backdrop to the terrible scene. Standing unsteadily at the top of the steps was Holmes, blood trickling down his forehead, his face white as chalk and clenched, a bedraggled, bloody figure pulled over his shoulder. Watson looked like a corpse. His skin was a pasty, pale grey and smeared with glistening blood. His eyes were firmly shut, his body limp and lifeless as he slumped heavily against Holmes, who had both arms wrapped around him so that the blood soaked into his jacket. Hair dishevelled, smeared with blood, clouds blasting from his mouth as he panted, Holmes stared up at her.

"Did you..."

"I got the message you sent," she replied, her voice high and fast. "The doctor's upstairs, in his old room..."

"Thank you," Holmes breathed, moving forwards.

He moved through the doorway, heaving Watson along with him. Lestrade paid the driver and jogged up the steps, his face red.

"Holmes, stop! Holmes! This is ridiculous-"

"If you're not going to help, I would rather like you to go," Holmes replied through gritted teeth.

He made it to the stairs and started up them, still struggling to carry Watson's motionless body with him. Lestrade stopped at the bottom of the stairs, pulling his hat violently from his head.

"Holmes! He needs a _hospital. _You can't do this alone!"

Holmes stopped halfway up, turning to look at him with glaring eyes. "Do you remember what happened last time we trusted that hospital? I think not, Lestrade."

"But you-"

"_No._"

Holmes voice was suddenly sharp as ice, a furious, snapping bite. The Inspector froze, staring up at him, his expression dancing with conflict. Then he abruptly moved forwards, sprinting up the stairs to pull Watson's other arm over his shoulders.

"This is on your head," he muttered.

Holmes didn't reply. Mrs. Hudson gripped the banister, pressing her lips together tightly.

"Can I do anything? Can... anything?"

Holmes laughed, a humourless, dry sound. "I believe a whisky would be welcome."

At the top of the stairs, the doctor Mrs. Hudson had called for had emerged from Watson's room. He stood waiting in the corridor, fidgetting anxiously, his face strained. He stepped back quickly as the trio staggered towards him, holding the door open. Holmes led the way as they turned sideways through the door, his jaw clenched tightly. He reached the bed and with the Inspector's help laid Watson down as carefully as he could. The other man gave no sign of life, no rewarding glimmer that his heart was even still beating. The doctor, a tall, white-haired man wearing a ruffled suit moved quickly over and bent over his new patient, his face already showing his resignation. Holmes knew how it looked. He knew that the mass of dark blood and dirt smeared over Watson's marble skin pointed towards only one outcome.

_I know what you're going to say, _He wanted to snap at the man who was now shaking his head slightly, _But he is not going to die. He's not._

"He should be dead," the doctor murmured, voicing Holmes' thoughts. "He's lost far too much blood-"

"Then be quick," Holmes interrupted stonily. "I do not plan to watch him die tonight."

The man glanced at him breifly before getting to work, reaching for his suitcase. Lestrade was pulling at Holmes' arm, trying to speak to him. Forcefully Holmes tore his gaze from Watson and followed the Inspector out into the corridor.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Holmes," Lestrade was saying, his face still red. He turned towards him, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I need to speak with you about this case-"

"Not now," Holmes replied shortly, not caring if he was being rude or not. "I've given you your guilty subjects."

"Not all of them," Lestrade said. "I have policemen on Joel's trail, but we both know that he can get away without too much difficulty. Blackwood's men are all prepared for such things. I need you to stop him before he hurts someone else. Don't look at me like that!" he added as Holmes glared at him. "I'm thinking of you! What if he decides to come back for Watson?"

"Well, he'll have to get past me first," Holmes said, his voice dangerously fast. "If you think he'll even get through the front door, you are sorely mistaken."

"So what are you going to do?"

Holmes shook his head. "In a week or so I'll start tracking him."

"A week? Holmes-"

"Thank you, Inspector," Holmes interrupted, turning away and striding back towards the door. "That's all."

"Holmes!"

He stopped, looked over his shoulder. Lestrade stood at the top of the stairs, his jaw working furiously. He bit his lip, and then shook his head and shrugged slightly.

"My thoughts will be with him," he said, the rapid, angry tone gone from his voice.

Holmes nodded slightly, and then moved into the room and shut the door heavily behind him.

* * *

Holmes flinched awake as he teetered to one side and nearly fell from his chair, the sudden jolt jerking him back into awareness. He looked around sharply, recognizing the familiar sight of Watson's room before allowing himself to relax once more. He rubbed a hand over his face, and then pushed himself off the padding of the chair and leant his folded arms on his knees, looking down at the motionless figure in the bed. Mrs. Hudson must have been in since he was last awake - there was a fresh, half empty glass of water on the bedside cabinet and a second blanket had appeared on the bed. Holmes, frowning slightly, reached out and took Watson's wrist, his eyes flickering over the other man's pale face and bruised flesh. He didn't look much different than the night before - angry red and purple marred his skin around the stark white bandages covering his shoulder and stomach, blossomed around his temple and jaw. But his skin was warmer now, and his pulse steadier. If Mrs. Hudson had managed to get him to drink something too, then finally after four long days of silence, the horizon was definately starting to brighten.

Satisfied with his diagnosis, Holmes stood up and stretched his cramped muscles before wandering over to the window. It must be mid-afternoon: the young gypsy boy who sold spiced buns was making his way down the street, which was currently busy with cabs, snorting horses and scurrying pedestrians. The sky was a brooding, heavy greyish-white, rolling clouds fading into the distance. The skeletal autumn trees reached towards them, as if wishing to be caught up and carried with the wind to somewhere else. Somewhere better. Holmes pushed his shaggy hair back from his face, his shoulders heaving in a silent sigh. The moments when he did hate the people of London were rare, but this was one of them. Usually he admired them, relished them - their huge range, their brutality, their high societies and their crawling underworlds, their transparent morals and their crowding masses - they sent a pulse of excitement and eager hunger through him, the kind of thrill he wanted. The promise of an imperfect world. But now, their vicious harshness made his eyebrows knit together.

When it went bad, the thrill always died a little.

He turned from the window and moved across the room to retrieve his violin. He had brought it in late the night before, desperate for something to do with his hands. Now, he began to pluck absently at the worn strings, shifting his hand up into third position as his eyes roved the emptiness the room seemed to harbour. Watson had moved most of his things out by now, and although it still had the basic furniture, its character appeared to have been stripped away. Maybe he would move back in now. Well, that wouldn't be so bad... His fingers flickered over the violin's smooth black neck as he moved back over to the bed. Watson's eyes moved slightly beneath their lids, but they didn't open.

Holmes was still staring down at him without really seeing anything when there was a soft knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson appeared, lingering in the doorway.

"Lestrade sent a letter round for you," she said. She moved forwards, offered him the envelope. He took it, studying it blankly. Her eyes moved to the bed. He caught the look that passed across her face - as if the mere sight moved her close to tears. "Anything?"

Holmes shook his head. Her mouth twitched.

"I feel maybe we should ask the doctor back."

Holmes just shook his head again. Mrs. Hudson huffed slightly at his silence but didn't argue. She left quietly, sparing one last look back before closing the door softly. Holmes put his violin down on the seat of his chair, slit the envelope open. He scanned it quickly, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Dredger and Ralph have been sentenced. Joel's still on the run," he added, glancing at Watson. "I wouldn't worry. He won't get far."

He crossed to the side of the bed, then let the envelope fall onto the bedside cabinet and folded his arms, looking down at the motionless figure beneath him.

"I can't help but think he'll be having more fun that I am. You truly are excessively boring when unconscious, Watson."

Watson's eyebrows pulled together slightly. Holmes' stomach lurched and he leant forwards eagerly, reaching out to take hold of Watson's shoulder. It wasn't an unusual movement - indeed, Watson had been doing it a lot recently - but that didn't mean that this time he wasn't going to wake up. Holmes watched his face, but then abruptly it relaxed and gave no other movement. Holmes paused a moment longer, and then began to straighten with a sigh.

"Well, I think its simply unfair. Here I am, cooped up with you-"

"Holmes..."

Holmes flinched violently as the rasping voice breathed his name and a trembling hand grasped his sleeve weakly. He looked down, his eyebrows arching as he took in Watson's hand clenched tightly in his shirt.

"Hello, Watson," he said softly, watching his friend's pale face.

There was a slight pause, the silence broken only by Watson's soft breathing. Then the other man's eyes opened blearily and stared up at Holmes, sending an overwhelming rush of relief through him, so strong that his legs actually trembled a little. That was it - tonight he was going to get some sleep. His face creased into a wide smile as he stared down at Watson's confused, dazed gaze.

"Back with us, are you?"

Watson took a deep breath, his brow still furrowed. He blinked a few times, flicked his eyes to the side and then back to Holmes'. He took another breath, as if controlling himself to try to breathe slowly.

"We're... in Baker Street," he said eventually, his voice thin.

Holmes nodded, casting his eyes skywards. "It is good to see your powers of observation have not failed you."

A second pause as Watson stared up at him, as if trying to gauge whether he was lying or not. Then, slowly, he released his grip. Holmes moved around to the other side of the bed, picking up the violin and sitting down once more. He rested the instrument on his lap, watching Watson carefully. He allowed the silence to stretch on, giving the other man time to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

"You got them," he said after a few moments, turning his head to look at him. "The police..."

"Dredger and Ralph were sentenced today," Holmes replied. "Joel is, at present, running for his life."

Something in Watson's face twisted, and he swallowed hard. His voice was quiet when he spoke again, quivering with emotion. "And... and Mary."

Holmes said nothing. He lifted his violin and began once more to pluck softly, his eyes still on Watson. He hadn't been certain if Watson knew about Mary or not. He hadn't liked the idea of telling him, but the thought of him knowing already, having found out at the hands of those thugs, was so much worse. Watson had fixed his own eyes on the ceiling, his jaw tight.

"She came to see me. She said... things..." his fists clenched in the blanket. He suddenly turned his head, looking Holmes directly in the face. "Did you ask her to say that? Was it some kind of trick?"

Holmes' fingers danced across the violin. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Watson blinked, and then his eyes drifted away once more. "I thought maybe... I thought..."

His voice trailed off. Holmes' stomach twisted uncomfortably. He had never been good with these moments, the time when he could no longer pass everything off on a sarcastic remark. He shifted into an A major scale, gently sweeping from low to high.

"How do you feel?" he offered, trying to change the subject. "The doctor left something for the pain, if you want it..."

Watson just shook his head. Holmes hesitated for a moment longer, and then stood up, forcing a bright tone into his voice. "Well, I must alert Mrs. Hudson. She'll be eager to feed you up."

He waited a second, in case of an unexpected reply, and then turned and moved towards the door. As he reached it, Watson spoke once more, his voice already heavy as the pull of sleep began to tug at him once more.

"Thank you, Holmes."

Holmes stopped, his hand on the door handle. He ran his tongue over his lips. He had paused so long that he suspected Watson had drifted off byu now anyway. Still, he gave his reply all the same.

"You're quite welcome, John."

Then he ducked out into the corridor, tucking his violin under his arm.

**Wow, only one more chapter to go!! I'm going to miss this story, I've really enjoyed it. :D Thanks for reading!**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.  
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	10. Return

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**Thanks to the people who reviewed! Sorry if I didn't reply to anyone, I tried to catch everyone.  
**

**WARNING: does NOT contain slash, but does contain blood, violence, limp, angst (yippee!) and possibly some strong language.**

* * *

Watson slept a lot over the next couple of days. Holmes steered clear of the quiet room next to his, happy to give the other man some silence at last. Instead, he spent his time cooped up in his own room. Sometimes he played his ancient violin, gazing vacantly out of the window and into the street below as he did so. Sometimes he glanced through the endless stream of letters he received daily, most of which went straight into the bin and others of which became burried under other paperwork and forgotten. Sometimes he played with the chemicals and bits and pieces spread out around his room. He was careful not to make too much noise, just in case.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair in the corner of the room and watched the wall that seperated his room from Watson's, and listened. He didn't know what he wanted to hear, but he never knew anything but an infuriating silence which sent him plodding back to whatever distraction he could find.

He heard Mrs. Hudson walking past his room three times each day, bringing a tray of food to Watson. Sometimes she left something on the ground outside his own room, but he was rarely interested. He was more concerned about how long she spent talking to him, whether he rejected the food or not, what he said to her. He didn't like asking Mrs. Hudson herself, as she seemed to find his questions somehow rude or ignorant. Instead, he sat with his back against the door of his room and listened and counted the seconds before she left. In this fashion he noticed a gradual increase in appetite and mood until eventually Mrs. Hudson left the room humming brightly to herself almost every time. Pleased with this thought, he began to spend more time on his own things rather than listening for his companion. But still, Watson made no sign of emerging from his room.

Which was why, when he was sitting in his armchair examining the handwritting of one paticular letter which niggled at his mind slightly more than the others, he didn't expect the sudden voice that came from the doorway.

"Hello, Holmes."

Holmes started violently and the letter crumpled into his fist. Watson smirked. He leant against the doorway, a plain shirt hanging open around him to show the bandages beneath. One arm was wrapped protectively around his stomach, as if he was still having trouble straightening up. Holmes scrambled to his feet in an undignified lurch, gripping the letter tightly.

"Well, I see your time in bed has not altered your manners. You didn't even knock!"

Watson laughed wearily and pushed off the doorway. He moved gingerly forwards, his hand still on his side. Holmes remained where he was, watching as Watson walked slowly over to him and sat down cautiously in the cluttered, stained armchair opposite his own. He studied his friend carefully. His face still held that unhealthy pallor, but at least now his eyes were opening completely and focussing on him. Holmes cleared his throat and spread the letter out once more, moving away to replace it on the growing mountain on his desk.

"Mrs. Hudson has been very attentive to you over the last few days. I feel quite excluded."

"She always did prefer me," Watson said, his mouth twitching into a grin.

Holmes rolled his eyes as he made his way back over and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees. Sunlight streamed through the window between them, a glittering flood of brightness striking into the darkness of the messy room. He could see the thought of her clear in Watson's eyes as the other man stared out into the sky, blinking against the blaze. Holmes didn't speak first. He never did.

"Mrs. Hudson brought me the paper. I see Lord Blackwood has been hanged - again."

"The Inspector was contemplating loping his head off just to be sure," Holmes replied, smiling. "I'm sorry to say he decided against it."

"Oh, shame," Watson commented, shaking his head. "Honestly Holmes, sometimes you speak as if you were those you hunt."

His voice was too light, too conversational. Holmes wet his lips, wondering if Watson would bring it up first. He could see it burning in his gaze, that self-loathing, furious grief which flickered and roared like a bonfire. He hesitated. Then he spoke, keeping his voice quiet, trying not to stray too far into that uncomfortably emotional area of conversation.

"You don't have to-"

"Don't, Holmes," Watson muttered. His tone grew abruptly dark. "I should have noticed. I shouldn't have been so _stupid... _It was too good to be true.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Noticed? Watson, _I _didn't notice."

"But you didn't like her." Watson shook his head. "I was too eager for her. I wanted to pretend I could have some innocent family life outside all of this maddness. Stupid," he repeated.

"Understandable," Holmes corrected, and Watson looked at him in surprise. He shrugged defensively, rising to his feet once more and crossing to a table on the far side of the room. "I have no doubt that one day you will shrug off my rather generous arm and wander off towards such a future. And you will bring your young children round for afternoon tea and I will invariably present one of them with a gun which you will fail to notice. Or perhaps blow off an arm or an ear, just to give the press a little something to snatch at..."

"I'm serious, Holmes," Watson growled, rolling his eyes.

"So am I," Holmes returned, pushing various objects around the table as he searched.

Watson fell silent. Holmes took his time searching for the letter, allowing the other man to think. He finally found the single letter he had been looking for and turned around, lifting it high in the air in victory. Watson looked up at him, and it seemed that some of that hate-wrought glare in his face was gone. He frowned at the letter.

"What's that?"

"This, Watson, is a letter a man sent to Inspector Lestrade in the hope of a cash reward. Needless to say he was dissapointed, but we were not."

Watson held out his hand for it. Holmes strode back over to him and deposited the letter in his palm, then folded his arms and watched him read. He grinned as Watson's expression changed; subtle twists in his eyebrows and mouth, the gleam that entered his gaze as he reached the end. He looked up, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Holmes's grin widened.

"Tell me, Watson," he said. "Do you feel up for a little trip into town?"

* * *

Evening brought with it a blazing sunset, the type that is often seen in paintings in museums of art and commented on by old men with silver hair. The type which feeds the fire burning in the heart of excitement until your hands begin to tremble. Watson span his cane in his grasp, glancing sideways at Holmes as he did so. The detective had his usual, contemplating, deductive look about him as he strode down the dull, grubby street beside him, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, his hat tilted forwards over his face. Watson kept his own walk casual, doing his best not to limp despite the persistent throb in his side and the dull ache over his stomach. He could live with it for a few minutes more. Long enough, at least, to witness this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Holmes taking occasional discreet glances in his direction. He was all too aware of the way the detective was watching him, as if expecting him to keel over at any moment, but for now he let it slide. He had no doubt that it would pass quickly enough as his injuries healed. It had been just the same on previous cases - Holmes had suddenly taken to accompanying him on errands or opting to stay in rather than go out for the evening. It was the closest the detective ever seemed to come to showing real concern. Unless, of course, you counted those last few seconds Watson could remember as he lay on a cold stone floor and felt his blood seeping out around him.

_"Come on... please, Watson... John!"_

Well, that counted as a special circumstance.

Holmes stopped abruptly and Watson looked up at the Inn they had arrived at. The Bright Star, its swinging sign portraying a ship sailing towards said star. The windows were grimy with dirt and the front door had a bullet hole in its thick wood. Not surprising for this area of town. Holmes pulled a pocket watch from his jacket, studied it, and then shoved it back in again.

"Lestrade, always late," he tutted softly. "Well, Watson, what do you say?"

Watson smiled, fixing his eyes on the door. "I say it would be a shame to miss such an opportunity."

"My thoughts exactly," Holmes replied.

Together they moved forwards and pushed their way into the Inn. It was busy at this time, filled with people who had just finished lower class jobs for the week and emerged into the streets in search of beer. No one took much notice of the two of them as they inched through the crowd towards the bar, where a large, well-built man was setting out a few pints for a group of young men. Industrial workers, by the look of them, Watson noted. The man glanced at them shortly, and then looked again. He hurried the group along quickly and made his way towards them.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked hopefully. "I were told to expect you."

Holmes nodded. "I believe you have something for us?"

The man nodded and reached under the bar. He brought out a brass key with a tag attatched and held it out. Holmes took it.

"Room twenty," he said. "First floor."

Watson's heart lurched slightly. Holmes glanced at him, and he offered a short nod in return before they turned and moved towards the stairs in the far corner. The din of the pub died away behind them as they climbed the wooden steps, up past a small window and onto the first floor. The worn floorboards creaked beneath them, and the wallpaper was faded and ancient. It seemed as if the Inn was close to falling apart, but Holmes made no effort to try to mask his footsteps, and so neither did Watson. He kept in step with the detective as they headed down the corridor, passing room ten, room twelve, room fourteen... Watson felt a quick, nervous smile twitch at his mouth.

Room twenty loomed up on his side. They stopped, Holmes at his left. Watson flexed his fingers on his cane, running his tongue over his dry lips. Holmes shot him an arched eyebrow, and then pounded his fist on the door twice, short, precise taps. There was a muffled crash from beyond the door, and then a hurried, impatient voice.

"What? Ah said no visitors."

The voice was instantly recognizable, and even from the other side of a closed door it sent a tremor of rage through Watson's chest. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. In answer, Holmes simply knocked again. There was a shuffling, and then the door inched open to reveal no more than a dark figure hovering behind the tiny crack. He peered out, eyes narrowed.

"What do-"

He got no further. Unable to contain himself a moment longer, Watson sent a single, hefty kick at the door. It flew open and the man behind it stumbled backwards, letting out a cry of shock. Holmes ducked in before Watson could enter, taking the lead once more as their target scrambled to his feet, his whole body rigid with fear and panic. Watson felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight. He spoke as Holmes advanced, pulling his hands from his pockets.

"Evening, Joel. It's just been too long..."

Joel glared at them for a moment, and then turned and made a dive for the desk on the opposite side of the small bedroom. Holmes moved forwards at once, reaching out to grab him by the scruff of his jacket. Joel clawed the drawer open, plunged his hand inside. Watson's stomach flipped and he lifted his cane, starting forwards.

"Holmes, wait-"

Too late. Joel had already whipped around, bringing his weapon down with a sharp crack on Holmes' temple. A weapon which was, Watson realized, Holmes' own revolver Joel had escaped with a week beforehand. As Holmes dropped to the floor and fell back against the foot of the bed, his eyes wide and blank with surprise, Joel tore open the window and threw himself out of it. Watson ran to Holmes' side and pressed his hand against the side of his neck, forcing the detective's head up. Holmes blinked at him, blood trickling from the small gash on his temple. Satisfied that the injury was no more than a concussion, Watson clapped him on the shoulder and turned to the window, determination set in stone in his gut. As he crossed to it he heard Holmes mumble something, but he ignored him.

This time, this was going to finish cleanly.

He reached the window and leant out of it. It wasn't far to the ground, and he could see Joel below rising unsteadily to his feet. The man looked up sharply, then sprinted for the mouth of a nearby alleyway. Watson didn't hesitate for a second - he vaulted over the window sill and dropped downwards. The ground slammed into his knees and he gasped, his impact jarring his wounds. But the pain was short-lived, because the next moment Joel had vanished into the alleway. Watson pushed himself to his feet and dashed after him, ignoring the steady ache in his side and chest.

Joel didn't run for long. They raced through they dingy, puddle soaked, twisting alleyways, their footsteps echoing thuds in the tight grimy space. After only a few seconds, Watson could feel himself beginning to tire. With his new weakness he couldn't keep up a long distance chase for long. Which was why, when Joel suddenly skidded to a halt and turned to face him, he felt not fear but relief. They stood a few meters apart, both panting, holding each other's gaze. Joel grinned, his shoulders heaving from the run.

"Thought there might be someone else," he said breathlessly. "Didn't realize it was jus' ya."

Watson flicked his cane around in his fist, his eyes narrowing coldly. "I knew you wouldn't be quite so confident in a fair fight."

Joel scowled, and then lifted Holmes' revolver. Even as his finger hit the trigger, Watson was moving. He heard the sharp _zing _as the bullet snapped past him before he had reached Joel. He lifted his cane and delivered a swift blow to the other man's stomach, and then another to his shoulder as he doubled over. Joel pulled away blindly, his hand closing over the end of the cane. He pulled it sharply, dragging it from Watson's grasp but before he could use it Watson had hit him in the face. Joel fell to his knees, breathing hard as blood rushed from his nose. Watson took his cane back with a steady tug, weighed it thoughtfully. Joel watched him, his eyes wide with the fear of a man with no options left to turn to.

"Alright," he said, his voice trembling. "Ah'll give myself up. Just please, don't... don't kill me."

"Kill you?" Watson repeated, glowering coldly back at him. "What do you take me for? Someone like you?"

Joel's eyes flashed. And Watson brought the cane down across his face.

For a few moments, Watson stood still, breathing deeply, allowing the throb in his chest to die. He looked down at the unconscious figure on the floor, lowering his cane. Despite the number of cases he and Holmes had executed in the past, he still found himself at a loss as to what to do now. He wondered dimly whether Holmes had brought the handcuffs with him or not. He lifted a hand to his brow and wiped away the pinpricks of sweat that glimmered there.

"Wasson? Wasson!"

He turned, smirking. "I'm here, Holmes," he called back.

Holmes appeared at the corner, his hand on the wall. In his other hand he held a hat. Watson's hat. He must have lost it as he leapt from the window. Holmes swayed over to him, squinting at him with great difficulty.

"You... dropped you're hat," he mumbled.

Watson grinned and took it. "Thank you, Holmes," he said. "Very constructive."

Holmes looked down at Joel, fingering the graze on his head. "Well, looks like... you don't need help," he said, his voice still breathy and light.

"Apparently not," Watson replied. "Do you want to call Lestrade, or shall I?"

Holmes let out a short sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh. And, standing beside him, Watson smiled. This proved it, then.

He was well and truly back in the game.

**The End.**

**Okay, that was it! Sorry it took so long to get this one up, but I hope you enjoyed it! A couple of people have mentioned a sequel... if anyone has any suggestions, please do review with them! If I do actually write a sequel - just a maybe - I'll put a preview up on the end of this story first.**

**Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed! Hope you enjoyed it.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.  
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